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ISITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY   OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFOR 


1SITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 
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LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFOR 


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Hppletons' 

ZTown  an&  Country 

Xibrarg 

No.  238 


THE  INCIDENTAL  BISHOP 


THE  INCIDENTAL  BISHOP 


A   NO^EL 


BY 

GRANT  ALLEN 


OF  THB 

UNIVERSITY 


NEW   YORK 

D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
1898 


CONTENTS. 


A2 


PART   I. 
AUSTRALASIA. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— AMONG  THE  ISLANDS i 

II.— A  BRUSH  WITH  THE  NATIVES .          .          .          .          .  10 
IH.—RlVAL  PIONEERS  OF   CIVILISATION  .          .          .          .22 

IV. — THE  MISSIONARY'S  ILLNESS     .....  29 

V. — BULLY  FORD'S  LIVE-STOCK 36 

VI.— THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  IT 47 

VII. — LAW  AND   ORDER       .        ,  .     '•, 53 

VIII.— A  GENTLEMAN   AGAIN 59 

IX. — ENTANGLEMENT 71 

X.— THE  COMPLETE  CASUIST 83 

XI  — TOM  PLUNGES 94 

XII. — THE  INEVITABLE io4 

XIII.— VITA  NUOVA 116 

XIV.— CROSSING  THE  RUBICON 127 

PART   II. 
ENGLAND. 

XV.— THE  PALACE,  DORCHESTER     ...  137 

XVI.— PERPLEXITY 152 

XVII.— TO  GO  OR  NOT  TO  GO   .     .    .     .     •    .164 

XVIII.— LOVE  UP  TO  DATE I72 

V 


vi  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

CHAfTOt  PAG* 

XIX.— THE  EPISCOPATE   STOOPS 156 

XX.— THE  LION'S  MOUTH 196 

XXL— A  QUESTION   OF  ORDINATION          .  .          .  .207 

XXII.— A  LIGHTER  TREATMENT 22O 

XXIII.— AN   OFFICIAL   INTERVIEW 230 

XXIV.— SUCH  SWEET  SORROW 240 

—THE  CLOUDS  THICKEN 246 

XXVL— AT  BAY 256 

XXVII.— EVELYN  ACTS 269 

XXVIII.— OFFICIAL  INTELLIGENCE 275 

XXIX.— THE  BISHOP  TURNS 285 

XXX.— THE  BISHOP  DECIDES 295 


THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

PART  I. 
AUSTRALASIA. 


CHAPTER   I. 
AMONG  THE  ISLANDS. 

"HARD  A-STARBOARD!  " 

The  John  Wesley  turned  her  slow  length;  and 
the  two  tall  cocoa-nut  palms  on  the  distant  hill- 
top, which  served  as  seamarks  to  ships  engaged 
in  what  was  euphemistically  called  "  the  Labour 
Traffic/'  having  been  brought  into  line,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  steam  at  a  cautious  rate  into  the  har- 
bour of  Temuka.  Its  reefs  have  wrecked  many 
better  vessels. 

And  what  a  beautifully-chosen  name  for  its 
purpose,  the  John  Wesley!  It  smacked  of  peace 
and  the  London  Missionary  Society.  If  any 
meddlesome  gunboat  of  Her  Britannic  Majes- 
ty's fleet,  engaged  in  superintending  or  suppress- 
ing the  Labour  Traffic  aforesaid,  had  chanced  to 
encounter  that  long  slim  steamer,  on  the  prowl 
after  "  apprentices,"  surely  the  mere  sight  of  the 

l 


2  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

•rds  "John  \  "  le^ihh  in  pit  let- 

ters on  her  stern,  must  have  disarmed  at  the  first 
blush  the  most  officious  and  suspicious  of  naval 
officers.  The  John  Wesley,  look  you!  so  well- 
meaning!  so  innocent!  doubtless  a  vessel  engaged 

distributing  Sunday-School  books,  and  tracts, 
and  cotton  pocket-handkerchiefs  to  the  mild  but 
unfortunately  heathen  inhabitants  of  those  isles 
of  summer.  Who  could  suspect  a  ship  with  such 

:ame  as  the  John  Wesley  of  anything  blacker 
than  ecclesiastical  nonconformi 

That  was  Tom  Pringle's  idea  when  he  first 
signed  articles  for  his  memorable  voyage.     The 
skipper  had  assured  him  (with  just  a  faint  qui 
of  the  left  eyelid,  it  is  true)  that  the  expedition 
'.«>Ily  concerned  with  the  purchase  of  bi\ 

mer,  for  export  to  China,  and  the  peaceful  col- 

:ion   of  dried   cocoa-nut   or  copra   from    ; 
meMan  islands. 

Nevertheless,  it  struck  Tom  as  odd  that  all 

ids  were  on  deck  when  they  approached  the 
coast,  and  that  even  the  sleepy  Malay  cook  with 
the  fat  red  eyes  had  an  air  of  alertness  and  a  re- 

Ivcr  in   his   hand,   as  the  shore  drew  near;  it 
looked  as  if  they  were  prepared  for  sometl 
4tiore  exciting  than   the  peaceable  exchange  of 
tobacco  and  hollands  (known  locally  a>  "  square 
for  sea-slugs  and  dried  fibres.     He  be.L 


AMONG   THE   ISLANDS.  3 

to  suspect  the  meaning  of  the  two  dozen  sniders 
on  the  rack  in  the  cabin,  and  the  handcuffs  hung 
up  by  the  Captain's  locker. 

Those  were  the  good  -old  days  of  the  early 
Queensland  Labour  Traffic.  And  one  may  as  i 
well  admit,  without  making  further  ado  about 
it,  that  the  microscopic  distinction  between  the 
Labour  Traffic  and  the  Slave  Trade,  as  they  ex- 
isted thirty  years  ago,  would  have  puzzled  the 
brains  of  the  minutest  casuist.  The  Traffic,  to 
say  the  truth,  was  usually  conducted  by  the 
primitive  method  of  descending  upon  an  island, 
buying  sturdy  young  blackfellows,  if  you  could, 
from  their  affectionate  relations,  and  stealing 
them  if  you  could  not,  by  force  and  arms,  with- 
out pretence  of  purchase.  Either  proceeding  was 
of  course  just  equally  illegal;  but  once  get  your 
cargo  of  human  live-stock  safe  landed  in  Queens- 
land, and  either  was  winked  at  by  the  indulgent 
labour-employing  planter  magistrates.  To  ask 
no  questions,  and  to  take  "  indentured  "  serv- 
ants on  the  importer's  warranty,  were  the  ethics 
of  the  times;  the  John  Wesley  perhaps  was  no 
better  and  no  worse  than  most  other  ships  then 
engaged  in  the  Traffic. 

Tom  Pringle,  however,  knew  nothing  of  all 
this;  as  indeed,  how  could  he?  A  simple-na- 
tured,  gently-bred  Canadian  young  man,  who 


4  THE    INCinr.NTAL    BISHOP. 

had  run  away  to  sea  as  a  lad  of  sixteen  from  a 
home  in  the  interior,  and  spent  the 
years  before  the  mast,  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
all  other  sailors  were  as  indifferent  honest  as 
himself;  and  he  accepted  a  berth  on  a  Labour 
Traffic  steamer  as  readily  as  he  would  have  ac- 
cepted it  on  a  Canadian  four-master  in  the  grain 
trade  on  lake  Ontario.  He  was  not  specially 
good,  but  he  was  not  wholly  bad:  he  was  just 
the  average  well-educated,  adventurous  youth 
who  goes  to  sea  or  to  an  Africa  diamond-mine, 

carch  of  sensation. 

The  night  before,  lolling  in  the  forecastle  on 
a  balmy  star-lit  tropical  evening,  he  had  <»!>- 

\ed  to  the  mate,  a  most  accomplished  ruti 
of  the  name  of  Hemmings:  "  Do  you  have  miu  h 

'ible  in  jjettini;  the  blackfellows  to  sign  tlu-ir 
Indentur 

Hemmings  stared  at  him  contemptU" 

noment,  and  sucked  in  a  copious  draught  of 
the  i<>l>acco-smoke  of  contemplation.     Then  he 
blew   it   out   through   his  nose  in   a   long  si- 
stream,  and  waited  to  consider.     Should  he  < 
lighten   this  green-horn   now.   or  let  en- 

lighten him?     After  all,  there's  no  teacher  on 

h  to  equal  experience.  The  mate  was  a  New 
England  blackguard  of  the  first  water,  trained  to 
humanity  on  a  Louisiana  *  Before  the  \\ 


AMONG   THE   ISLANDS.  5 

He  watched  the  last  white  curl  of  smoke  disap- 
pear in  the  luminous  southern  starlight  before 
he  answered  with  the  usual  seafaring  embellish- 
ments: "Well,  I  can't  say  the  niggers  give  us 
much  trouble,  anyhow.  They're  fond  of  civilisa- 
tion. Stands  to  reason  they  should  be.  Just  see 
what  it  has  done  for  'em!  It's  brought  'em  big 
ships,  and  cloth,  and  beads,  and  squafe  gin,  and 
Winchester  breech-loaders,  and  tobacco,  and 
measles,  and  missionaries,  and  small-pox,  and 
rum,  and  the  Labour  Traffic.  Why,  a  few  years 
ago,  say,  what  outlet  was  there  for  an  enterpris- 
ing young  native  on  Temuka,  I'd  like  to  know? 
If  he  was  a  chief,  well  and  good;  as  the  sailor 
said  to  the  Port  Admiral:  '  You've  got  a  bloom- 
ing fine  berth,  old  chap;  mind  you  stick  to  it.' 
But  if  he  warn't  a  chief,  he  couldn't  do  anything; 
every  durned  thing  he  ever  wanted  to  do  was 
safe  as  houses  to  be  taboo,  and  he  couldn't  even 
try  it.  He  had  jest  to  lie  on  his  back  in  the  sun 
and  grow  fat ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  fat  enough, 
by  George,  if  the  chiefs  didn't  use  to  eat  him." 

"  And  now?  "  Tom  asked,  looking  up. 

The  mate  eyed  him  again  in  the  mellow  star- 
light with  a  curious  glance  of  dubious  enquiry. 
He  was  a  green  'un,  and  no  mistake;  appeared 
to  the  mate  they'd  made  a  little  error  in  bring- 
ing such  a  raw  chap  on  a  job  like  this  one.  He 


6  THE   INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

took  another  long  pull  at  his  pipe,  and  blew  an- 
other curl  of  most  meditative  smoke  up  into  the 
calm,  soft  tropical  air.  "  Well,  naow,"  he  an- 
swered slowly,  weighing  his  words  as  he 
"  an  in-telligent  young  native — and  some  of  'em 
is  almost  as  intelligent  as  a  dog,  I  kin  tell  you 
— an  intelligent  young  n:  ith  a  spark  of 

enterprise  in  him.  ...  kin  take  advantage  of 
the  opportunities  afforded  him  by  the  Labour 
Traffic.  He  kin  sign  his  indentures — "  the  mate 
glanced  sicK  ^ain  at  his  unconscious  hearer; 

" — or  rather,  not  knowing  how  to  write,  he  kin 
put  his  cross  agin  his  name  on  a  paper;  and  then 
he  kin  be  taken  over  sea  to  Queensland,  free  of 
charge,  in  a  commodious  steamer;  while  our  own 
flesh  and  blood,  if  they  want  to  emigrate,  h 
to  pay  their  passage  in  the  steerage  quarter  of  a 
beastly  emigrant  vessel.    Then  he  kin  work  se 
years,   all   found,   on   an   estate  in   Queensland, 
where  the  Queen's  government  gives  him  medi- 
cal attendance,  and  everything  else  thrown   in, 
gratis.     And  he  kin  get  converted;  he  kin  find 
religion;  he  kin  have  the  blessings  of  Christ i 
ity  conferred  upon  him  for  nothing,  with  as  much 
square  gin  as  he  wants,  into  the  bargain.     And 
at  the  end  of  his  time, — well,  he  kin  return  to 
hi>  own  home,  with  a  felt  hat.  an'  a  pair  of  pa: 
a  breech-loader  rifle,  and  be  as  good  as  a 


AMONG   THE    ISLANDS.  7 

chief  himself,  and  shoot  other  blackfellows,  and 
cook  'em,  and  eat  'em.  Oh,  there  ain't  any  deny- 
ing it,  no  flies  on  the  Labour  Traffic:  it's  been 
a  durned  fine  thing  for  the  march  of  intellect  in 
the  South  Sea  Islands;  it's  brought  home  to 
their  own  doors  the  blessings  of  civilisation." 
The  mate  took  another  pull,  as  he  spoke,  at  the 
particular  blessing  which  was  nearest,  save  one, 
to  his  own  heart;  the  solitary  exception  being 
of  course  hollands. 

"  Do  they  ever  give  any  trouble?  "  Tom  en- 
quired again,  musing.  " — Want  to  fight  and  so 
forth?" 

Hemmings  laughed  outright.  "  Oh,  you  are 
an  innocent  one!  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  mister,  you 
don't  suppose  savages  lift  their  hats  politely 
when  they  meet  you  on  the  beach,  and  say,  '  Mr. 
Hemmings,  I  reckon?  Step  in  and  have  a  drink, 
sir/  Blackfellows  is  blackfellows;  and  there  ain't 
no  counting  on  'em.  They're  always  a  bit  sus- 
picious of  the  man  that  tries  to  civilise  'em. 
Didn't  they  kill  Captain  Cook?  and  wasn't  it 
Captain  Cook  that  first  introduced  the  blessings 
of  civilisation  to  the  Pacific  islands,  when  the 
natives  in  their  blindness  knew  no  better  nor  to 
bow  down  to  stocks  and  stones,  instead  of  buy- 
ing bottled  beer,  and  couldn't  so  much  as  tell 
you  the  right  word  for  tobacco?  Didn't  they 


8  THI  BISHOP. 

kill  Bishop  Patteson — and  sane  him  rivjht.  too; 
what   in   thunder  did  he   want   to  come  ii 

for  in  a  sphere  as  is  better  left  to  the  pio- 
neers of  civilisation  in  the  square  gin  and  labour 
trades?  They're  the  people  for  the  South  Seas; 
you  bet  your  bottom  dollar  on  it.  They  under- 
stand the  natives,  and  they  understand  the  trade, 
and  they  ain't  hampered  by  any  of  your  all-fired 
Exeter  Hall  nonsense.  A  man  must  make 
mo  And  the  mate  brought  down  his  fist 

on  his  own  lean  knee  with  a  fervour  of  conviction 

i  there  was  no  gaii 

"Then  we  may  have  a  brush  with   them?" 
Tom  enquired.    He  was  an  average  young  Briton, 

;her  better  nor  worse  than  most  others  of  his 
age,   though  superior  to  the  run  of  sailors 
education;  and  to  say  the  truth,  he  would  not 
wholly  have  minded  the  chance  of  a  fight,  pro- 

ed   he   believed   the   natives   to  be   the   ag- 
gressors. 

Hemmings  stroked  fns  goatee  beard.     This 

s  more  like  the  right  spirit!  "  Don't  you  be 
afeard,  young  man/'  he  answered,  staring  hard 
at  him.  "  If  it's  a  brush  ymi  want,  you  stand  ( 
as  fair  a  chance  of  seeing  some  fun  with  the  black- 
fellows  aboard  the  John  \\  esley  as  aboard  any 
other  vessel  engaged  in  the  Traffic  on  the  South 
Pacific.  Captain  Ford  ain't  the  build  of  man 


AMONG   THE    ISLANDS.  9 

to  stand  their  nonsense.  Every  blackfellow  has 
got  to  mind  his  p's  and  q's  when  Captain  Ford's 
about.  A  nigger  in  these  latitudes  ain't  got  any 
p's,  no  doubt,  and  don't  know  any  q's,  being 
just  a  poor  benighted  heathen,  ignorant  of  his 
alphabet;  but  he's  bound  to  acquire  'em  where 
Captain  Ford's  around,  I  kin  tell  you;  for  Cap- 
tain Ford  takes  care  a  blackfellow  shall  mind 
'em,  whether  he's  got  'em  or  not;  and  mind 
'em  he  must,  or  Captain  Ford  will  ask  the  rea- 
son why,  with  the  muzzle  of  a  Winchester." 

Tom  laughed  unconcernedly.  He  did  not 
realise  the  full  import  of  the  mate's  remarks;  and 
if  they  only  meant  that  aggressive  natives  would 
be  kept  at  arm's  length,  why,  Tom  rather  looked 
forward  than  otherwise  to  the  fun  of  a  skirmish. 
He  turned  into  his  berth  that  night,  when  his 
watch  was  over,  without  much  compunction;  but 
he  fell  asleep,  repeating  to  himself  a  stray  line  of 
Horace,  which  he  had  learnt  when  he  was  a  boy 
at  the  Grammar  School  In  Canada;  for  he  was 
not  without  the  rudiments  of  a  polite  education. 
He  hadn't  thought  of  Horace  for  six  years  or  so, 
he  fancied;  but  the  mate  had  said:  "A  man 
must  make  money";  which  brought  him  back 
by  a  curious  side-touch  to  a  forgotten  hexameter 
— something  about  "  Rem  facias,  rem:  si  possis, 
recte;  si  non,  quocunque  modo,  rem." 


CHAPTER   II. 

A    BRUSH    WITH    THE    NATIY 

THIS   morning,    however,    Tom   was   clearly 

ire  that  something  unusual  was  now  expected. 

cry  one  was  on  deck  cry  one's  face  wore 

an  eager  look  of  keen  expectation. 

They  were  steaming  cautiously  round  a  head- 
land into  a  dark  open  harbour.     Black  1>a-alt 

£S  hemmed  it  in.  Tom  took  it  for  the  crater 
of  an  extinct  volcano.  In  shape  it  was  abso- 
lutely circular,  with  tall  walls  of  cliff,  broken  only 
by  a  single  narrow  and  shallow  opening,  which 
he  judged  at  sight  to  be  the  lip  through  wl 
lava  had  flowed  in  prehistoric  eruptions.  Just 
opposite  this  lip.  three  conical  hills  rose  abruptly 
in  the  foreground,  backed  up  by  the  great  ram- 
part of  sheer  basalt  precipice.  Tom  was  no  ge- 
ologist, but  he  could  see  at  a  glance  that  t 

ipart  represented  the  old  funnel  of  the  era 

while  the  three  small  hills  were  clearly  cones  of 

erupted    ash    and    pumice-stone.      A    merciless 

tropical  sun  beat  hard  on  black  cliff  and  white 

10 


A  BRUSH   WITH   THE   NATIVES.  It 

hillock.  The  whole  was  thickly  covered,  how- 
ever, by  a  beautiful  mantle  of  tropical  greenery; 
cocoa-nut  palms  waved  on  the  slopes  of  the  three 
hills,  and  bamboos  sprang  feathery  from  the  black 
clefts  of  the  precipice.  In  and  out  among  the 
bush  that  draped  the  lesser  hills  rose  groups  of 
native  huts,  surrounded  by  flaming  crimson  hi- 
biscus bushes.  It  was  one  of  the  most  glorious 
harbours  Tom  had  ever  beheld;  and  its  beauty 
was  increased  by  the  numberless  small  waterfalls 
which  tumbled  in  sheets  of  white  foam  from  the 
precipice  above  down  the  ravines  to  the  fore- 
shore. They  suggested  delicious  pictures  of  ro- 
mantic bathing-places — deep  basins  shaded  by 
thick  forest  foliage,  where  one  could  spend  the 
whole  day  in  swimming  and  diving. 

Tom  was  the  only  person  on  deck,  however, 
who  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  this  exquisite 
scene.  The  others  were  all  standing  in  very  at- 
tentive attitudes,  engaged  in  watching  the  hurry 
and  bustle  that  possessed  the  native  town,  at  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  European  steamer. 

Tom  looked  round  also,  and  saw  at  once  that 
the  arrival  of  these  pioneers  of  civilisation  had 
unaccountably  thrown  the  Melanesian  popula- 
tion into  a  fervour  of  panic.  Before  the  John 
Wesley  had  rounded  the  point,  almost  (among 
rocks  and  reefs  most  perilous  to  seamen),  he 


12  THK    IN<  IDFNTAL    BISHOP. 

could  see  hasty  preparations  going  on   in   the 
wattled  villages  th  ned  the  three  hilloc 

Mothers  caught  up  their  naked  black  children  in 
their  arms,  and  fled  shrieking  to  the  paths  that 

nid  in  zigzag  up  the  precipice.     Young  g 

lied  after  them  with  every  sign  of  terror.  Men 
emerged  from  the  huts  with  long  spears  in  their 
hands,  and  advanced  towards  the  shore,  threat- 
eningly, brandishing  their  weapons  as  they  went, 
and  crying  aloud  with  fierce  and  angry  gestures. 
The  whole  district  looked  at  once  like  an  ant- 
hill stirred  up  by  the  foot;  the  black  human  ai 

re  removing  their  young,  or  saving  their  own 
skins,  or  showing  fight  against  the  intruder,  in 

ay  that  absurdly  recalled  their  insect  proto- 
t >  pes.  And  a  blazing  hot  sun  revealed  it  all  with 
tropical  distinctness. 

As  Tom  stood  and  gazed,  immensely  inter- 
ested in  this  strange  sight — for  it  was  his  t 
voyage  to  the  South  Pacific — a  voice  at  his  side 
suddenly  roused  him  from  his  inaction.     It  \ 
Hemmings  who  spoke.     "Here,  you,   Pringle," 
he  cried,  catching  Tom  by  the  arm,  "  what  are 
you  standing  staring  there  for?    This  is  business, 
mir  man!     ]\\<i  you  catch  that  revolve 

He  handed  it  as  he  spoke,  with  a  cutla<>  into 
the  bargain.     Tom  took  them,  half  bewilde: 
He  began  to  be  aware  with  a  sudden  start  of 


A   BRUSH   WITH   THE   NATIVES.  13 

surprise  that  the  "  little  brush "  was  at  hand 
in  real  earnest. 

"  And  mind  you,"  Hemmings  went  on  ; 
"  none  of  your  durned  Puritanical  nonsense  here! 
You've  shipped  on  a  Labour  Vessel,  and  you've 
got  to  accommodate  yourself.  We  don't  want 
no  passengers,  and  we  don't  want  no  neutrals. 
It's  fight,  or  get  speared;  either  the  niggers  will 
do  it,  or  a  civilised  six-shooter." 

Tom  hurried  to  the  gunwale,  and  looked 
across  towards  the  shore,  whence  canoes  were 
shoving  off  through  the  surf  as  fast  as  the  ex- 
cited natives  could  man  them. 

Captain  Ford  stood  close  by,  with  a  very 
resolute  air, — a  large,  loose  man,  with  a  Napo- 
leonic nose,  inflamed  by  drinking.  He  was  not 
quite  such  a  ruffian,  to  look  at,  as  the  mate;  but 
he  was  a  determined  person,  and  his  business  was 
slave-making.  On  occasions  like  this,  he  kept 
studiously  sober.  Glancing  at  the  foremost 
canoes,  he  held  his  hand  up  for  a  sign.  Tom 
guessed  at  once  it  meant  "  Is  it  peace  or  war?  " 
for  even  the  skipper  preferred  buying  coolies  to 
fighting  for  them.  But  the  men  of  Temuka 
knew  the  John  Wesley  and  its  ways  too  well. 
A  shout  of  defiance  and  a  fierce  clatter  of  spears 
was  the  instant  answer. 

"  Show   them   the   square   gin,"   the   skipper 


14  CIE 

1,  very  calmly.      He  was  a  phlegmatic  scoun- 

A  sailor  held  up  three  of  the  coveted  bot 
while  another  displayed  an  empty  case  with  in- 
viting gestures.     The  mate  himself  flung  out  a 

packages  of  tobacco.     But  the  natives  pro- 
ceeded to  shout  threateningly  as  before;  me 
while,  the  women  and  children  kept  flying  to  the 
hills,  while  all  in  the  villages  was  bustle  of  prep- 
aration. 

Fair  ir  de's  no  go,"  the  skipper  urn- 

ing  to  Hemmings.     "  It's  no  use  trying  them 
with  square  gin  this  journey.    They  remember  old 
Nouman.    ( live  'cm  a  shot.  I  lemming-:  gi 
a  shot.    That'll  bring  'em  to  reason!  " 

In  a  second,  a  loud  boom  resounded   from 
the  big  gun,  and  a  shot  plough  hrough 

the  canoes,  dashing  foam  right  and  left,  and  up- 
setting one  of  them.     There  was  a  scramble 
life.     The  nan  am   and   struggled   in    the 

water  like  tadpoles.     It  was  clear  some  of  tl 

ounded.    The  skipper  paused  a  moment  to 
judge  the  effect  of  this  practical  warning. 

For  a  minute  or  two,  the  blackfellows  shouted 
and  chattered  incoherently.     Then  a  retreat  v 
beat.     The  canoes  began  to  put  back,  the  men 
still   brandishing   their  spears  in  anger.      "  \Ve 
can't   do  anything  just 


A   BRUSH   WITH    THE   NATIVES.  jj 

turning  to  his  second  in  command.  "  No  busi- 
ness here  this  morning.  They  won't  come  near 
now,  and  we  can't  land  in  face  of  them;  if  we 
wait  till  night,  they'll  have  made  up  their  differ- 
ences with  the  nearest  villages,  and  they'll  all 
swarm  out  in  their  canoes  to  surround  us.  Hem- 
mings,  we  must  steam  out  again  and  land  a  party 
to  take  them  at  their  dances  from  the  shore  in 
the  rear.  Then  we  can  fire  a  shot  or  two  to 
divert  the  main  body,  and  keep  the  rest  engaged 
till  you've  crept  round  to  surprise  them." 

The  John  Wesley  steamed  out  again,  obedi- 
ent to  the  bell,  in  her  slow  majestic  fashion.  Tom 
could  see  the  natives  had  very  rudimentary  no- 
tions of  strategy;  for  the  moment  she  turned, 
they  seemed  to  consider  the  game  was  up,  and 
put  off  again  in  their  canoes,  deriding  and  in- 
sulting her.  It  was  evident  they  thought  their 
mere  show  of  opposition  had  frightened  away  the 
well-armed  white  men.  Captain  Ford  smiled 
grimly  at  this  childish  demonstration,  for  he 
knew  they  would  find  out  their  mistake  before 
long.  He  took  action  calmly.  The  John  Wes- 
ley steamed  off  some  four  miles  to  northward, 
past  a  region  of  mangrove  swamps,  to  a  hard 
surf-beaten  beach  where  landing  was  possible. 
Then  the  boats  were  put  out,  and  most  hands 
ordered  into  them.  Tom  went  with  the  rest,  a 


16  THI-:   WCIDl  BISHOP. 

little  doubtful  now  as  to  the  legality  of  this 
method  of  recruiting  apprentices,  but  too  full  of 
the  excitement  and  novelty  of  the  occasion  to 
find  much  room  just  then  for  mere  moral  com- 
punctions. 

They   rowed   through   the  sobbing  breakers 
of  a  great  white  reef  towards  a  shelving  hard. 

1  landed,  unseen,  in  a  bay  by  the  shore  a  i 
miles  from  the  harbour.    A  native  or  two  ni>hcd 
out  from  a  group  of  huts  close  by;  but  a  well- 
directed  shot  or  so  drove  them  into  the  bu-h 
once   more.     There,    they   skulked   behind    the 

es,  and  fired,  for  they  were  armed  with  old 

terns  of  discarded  rifles;  but  it   was  impos- 
sible to  see  them.     **  Single  file!"   the  skipper 
called   out    in   a   military   voice;  and   the   men. 
forming  in  single  file,  followed  him  alnni;  a  track 
that  led  tortuously  through  the  forest.    The  skip- 
1   first;  it   was  a   tangled  path,  along 
which  two  men  could  not  go  abreast.    Tom  had 
had  a  harder  march   in   his  life,   for  the 
gnarled  roots  and  twisted  stems  of  the  creepers 

re  troublesome,  and  the  ground  was  boggy; 
besides  which,  every  now  and  again,  with  a  sud- 
den clash,  the  natives  beat  tom-toms,  and  yelled, 
and  peppered  them  from  behind  a  tree,  dis 
pearing  as  instantly.     The  jungle  was  close  and 

ip:  the  air  steamed:  it   was  the  climate  of 


A   BRUSH   WITH   THE   NATIVES.  17 

an  orchid  house.  Still,  the  skipper  marched  on, 
as  along  a  road  that  he  knew;  while  the  natives 
fell  behind,  not  caring  for  the  rest,  as  soon  as 
they  saw  their  own  little  group  of  huts  in  the 
ravine  by  the  bay  was  not  seriously  menaced. 
Even  then,  the  mosquitoes  made  each  step  an 
annoyance,  while  leeches  dropped  from  the  trees 
as  they  passed  beneath  them. 

The  whites  continued  through  the  wood  for 
a  mile  or  two  in  silence.  Not  a  word  was  spoken. 
Suddenly,  a  turn  in  the  tortuous  path  led  them 
again  to  the  shore.  There,  a  glade  opened  up, 
and  to  Tom's  great  surprise,  they  burst  upon  a 
body  of  young  people  dancing.  It  was  a  strange, 
weird  scene.  The  whole  party  halted  and  drew 
itself  up  in  line  for  a  moment.  The  dancers,  too 
much  occupied  in  their  dance  to  be  conscious 
of  anything  else,  never  even  observed  the  arrival 
of  the  white  men.  In  a  second  the  skipper  saw 
he  had  reached  his  aim  in  the  nick  of  time:  this 
was  a  great  annual  religious  ceremony.  Dozens 
of  young  men  and  women,  with  their  smooth 
black  limbs  half  draped  in  garlands,  were  moving 
up  and  down  in  a  measured  rhythm,  with  painted 
faces.  "  It's  a  meke,"  the  skipper  said  low; 
"  stand  aside,  boys,  and  take  care;  I  thought  this 
would  be  on:  we  can  catch  the  whole  lot  of 
them:" 


18  Mi!  iOP. 

Tli-  g   men   and  -lup- 

tnouxly  backward  and  forward  in   the  shade  of 
the  trce>.  their  shining  black  bodies  silhouet 

the  foam  on  the  shore.  They  moved  like 
the  figures  on  a  Celtic  cross,  in  strange  rhythmic 
cur  ;  intertwining  circles.  Clearly,  they 

had  heard  nothing  of  the  arrival  of  the  stear 
at  Temuka  harbour:  their  tom-toms  must  1 
droxviu  the  noise  of  the  cannon.     Besides, 

in    the  >y   of   religious  abandonment,   all 

outer  e  ere  wholly  forgotten.    Tom  could 

see  their  festival  \va>  the   Klen-inian  /  of 

some  South  Sea  Ashtaroth.     It   was  at  once  a 

liymn.  a  procession.     .V 

men  chanted  slow  their  mystic  chorus  in  line. 
keeping   time   to   the   tom-toms.      Louder   and 
louder   grew    the    strains:    quicker   and    quicker 
became    the   motions   of   their    bodies.      "II 
back  till  I  give  the  word/    the  skipper  mnttc 
in  a   low   voice:  "  then,   the  moment    I    say,  Go, 

<  i/e  them!  " 

At    the    time,    it    struck   Tom    this    \\ 
merest   slave-raid.      lUit    though   it   revolted    his 

^e  of  right  to  take  part  in  such  an   att. 
he  had  not  depth  of  moral  conviction  enough  to 
make   him   hold   back   from  joining   in    it. 

1  the  signal  breathle  ;he 

cried;  and  almost  before  Tom  could  i\ 


A  BRUSH   WITH   THE    NATIVES.  ig 

ise  what  was  happening,  the  sailors  had  rushed 
forward,  like  a  body  of  wild  beasts,  and  were  se- 
curing the  likeliest  young  men  and  women  with 
cords  and  handcuffs. 

The  whole  thing  took  but  a  moment.  At 
once,  the  shore  was  alive  with  tumult.  The 
natives  were  numerous,  but  unarmed;  for  though 
they  used  spears  in  their  dance,  the  points  were 
blunted;  they  were  like  ornamental  fencing  foils. 
A  few  of  the  medicine  men  or  sorcerers  behind, 
beating  tom-toms  and  directing  the  dance,  had 
long  knives,  to  be  sure;  but  these  were  of  little 
use  against  the  white  man's  fire-arms.  Captain 
Ford  stood  close  by,  with  his  revolver  raised; 
four  sailors,  beside  him,  pointed  rifles  at  the  na- 
tives. The  men  were  cowed;  the  women,  scream- 
ing and  terrified,  rushed  wildly  towards  the  bush, 
and  were  allowed  for  the  most  part  to  escape, 
for  the  planters  only  require  girls  in  the  propor- 
tion of  one  to  every  four  "  apprentices."  In  an 
incredibly  short  time,  some  forty  or  fifty  young 
men  had  been  secured  and  handcuffed;  they 
grovelled  now  on  the  ground  at  the  skipper's 
feet,  with  the  muzzles  of  the  rifles  covering  them 
all  in  turn,  and  waited  to  learn  what  fate  was  re- 
served for  them. 

As  Tom,  too,  waited  and  wondered,  the  John 
Wesley  hove  in  sight,  while  the  boats  in  which 


20  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

they  had  landed  came  paddling  slowly  round  the 
corner.  Then  Tom  saw  the  whole  attack  had 
been  carefully  planned  and  ably  executed.  The 
-kipper  knew  of  this  festival,  and  had  counted 
upon  its  occurrence.  He  had  created  a  diversion 
at  Temuka  harbour,  to  take  off  the  attention  of 
the  main  body  of  blackfellows,  and  then  had  sur- 

ed  the  unarmed  young  men  and  women  where 
their  capture  was  easiest. 

The  empty  boats  rowed  landward.  One  by 
one,  the  captured  nati  re  marched  to  the 

shore  and  huddled  into  them  carelessly,  tied  hand 
and  foot, — bundled  into  the  boats  much  as  one 
has  seen  fowls  packed  in  crates  for  railway  trav- 
elling. They  resist  for  they  sawf  all 
was  up:  but  those  who  did  resist  were  quietly 
knocked  on  the  head  with  the  butt-end  of  a 
ritle.  and,  half-stunned  by  the  blow,  forced  hastily 
0  the  gig.  Then,  a  strong  net  was  fastened 
across  them,  beneath  the  thwarts,  as  one  has 
seen  it  fastened  over  a  calf  in  a  market  cart.  Al- 
together, not  the  slightest  recognition  was  given 
to  the  fact  that  a  Melanesian,  after  all,  is  a  ver- 
tebrate animal.  Tom  began  to  perceive  the  true 
inwardness  of  that  extremely  elastic  phrase,  the 
Labour  Traffic,  and  to  understand  that  he  had 
been  inveigled  into  a  man-stealing  expedition. 

As  they  busied  themselves  about  putting  off, 


A   BRUSH   WITH    THE   NATIVES.  21 

the  natives  behind,  now  recovering  from  their 
panic,  began  to  show  their  heads  once  more 
among  the  bush  in  the  background,  or  even  to 
advance  towards  the  shore,  with  sticks  and  stones 
and  other  improvised  weapons.  The  skipper's 
cue  was  not  to  hesitate.  "  Fire!  "  he  said  short- 
ly to  the  four  men  with  rifles;  and  at  the  word, 
four  bullets  whizzed  in  among  the  blackfellows. 
Two  of  them  fell  wounded;  the  rest,  not  wait- 
ing to  help  them  or  to  see  whether  they  were 
dead,  rushed  back  pell-mell  under  cover  of  the 
jungle. 

"  Now,  row  off,"  the  skipper  said.  "  To  the 
ship  at  once!  We've  got  as  much  stock  as  we 
shall  get  at  Temuka." 


CHAPTER  III. 

RIVAL    PIONEERS    OF    CIVILISATION. 

TOM  took  his  place  at  the  oars,  feeling 

uncomfortable.    It  was  an  ugly  business. 
For  all  he  knew,  those  two  blackfellou  s  might 
be  dead,  and  lie  himself  might  have  been  acces- 
sory to  their  murder.     In  any  case,  he  had  1 
inveigled.  :  :    little  on  his  own  account   by 

malice  aforethought,   into  a  slave-making   raid 
on  a  Pacific  island.    To  increase  hi>  di -comfort, 
pper  gazed  across  at  him  with  a  sardonic 

and  copra,  you  se< 

said  calmly.     "And  in  a  ship  like  this!     Oh,  my 
soul,  Tom  Pringle,  you  are  a  fresh  one! " 

Tom  rowed  on  in  silence  towards  the  hate- 
ful black  hull  of  the  slim  John  \ 

They    had    passed    the   reef,    where    the    sea 

:rled  and  seethed  like  a  boiling  cauldron,  and 
were  Hearing  the  ship,  when  a  sudden  cry  from 
the  -kipper  made  Tom  look  up  in  astonishment. 

"  Why.  what's  this.  Hemi:  the  ski; 

exclaimed,  looking  anxiously  forward.    "  Blessed 

22 


RIVAL   PIONEERS   OF   CIVILISATION.  23 

if  that  canoe  there  ain't  flying  the  British  col- 
ours! " 

All  hands  looked  in  front.  The  skipper  was 
quite  right.  Four  well-manned  canoes  were 
sweeping  round  the  point  from  Temuka  harbour; 
and  the  first  of  them  displayed  the  Union  Jack, 
waved  prominently  in  front  by  a  man  in  a  pith 
helmet. 

The  skipper  gazed  again.  Then  he  whistled 
long  and  hard.  "  Blamed  if  it  ain't  one  of  them 
confounded  missionaries!  " 

Still,  the  four  canoes  rowed  straight  on,  head- 
ing steadily  between  the  boats  and  the  John 
Wesley.  "  And  he  means  to  cut  us  off,"  Hem- 
mings  put  in,  acquiescing. 

"  I  shall  fire,"  the  skipper  said  briefly. 

"  He's  a  white  man,"  Hemmings  answered. 
"  It's  an  act  of  piracy.  You're  boss  on  your  own 
ship,  of  course;  but  if  I  was  you,  Captain  Ford, 
I'd  be  careful." 

"  White  man  or  no  white  man,  what  does  he 
want  to  come  interfering  with  the  Labour  Traf- 
fic for?  "  the  skipper  answered  angrily.  "  We've 
got  to  have  labourers;  and  we've  got  to  get  'em 
the  best  way  we  can.  If  it  wasn't  for  these  con- 
founded white-livered  missionaries,  we  wouldn't 
have  half  the  trouble.  I  shall  give  him  a  piece 
of  my  mind. — Fire  a  shot  across  her  bows,  Jim.'' 


24  'I'!  IK    INCIDKNTAL    BISHOP. 

The  man  he  had  ordered  fired  without  a  sec- 
ond's hesitation.  But  the  canoe,  never  heeding 
the  shot,  came  on  till  it  was  within  hailing  dis- 
tance. 

Then  a  weather-beaten  man,  with  an  open 
honest  face,  stood  up  in  her  bow  and  shouted. 
"  Don't  shoot/'  he  said  quietly.  "  We  come  on 
a  mission  of  peace.  We  only  want  to  ask  what 
you  are  doing  in  our  waU 

What  the  blank  is  that  to  y  the  skip- 

per answered,  scowling.  "  We're  trading  among 
the  islands.  Don't  interfere  with  free  trade. 
Keep  your  distance,  or  we'll  fire."  Then  he  added 
lower:  "  He  don't  know  we've  got  'em  already. 
If  he  comes  near  enough  to  see  we  have  stock 
aboard,  he'll  make  mischief  in  Sydney." 

The  man  with  the  open  face  took  no  notice 
of  the  prohibition.  If  skippers  can  be  resolute, 
so  too  can  missionaries;  and  Tom  realised  at  that 
moment  that  it  needs  a  brave  man  to  take  his 
life  in  his  hands  and  settle  down  alone  among 
these  savage  islanders. 

He  waved  his  hand  to  his  crew  and  drew  a 
little  nearer;  then  he  called  out  again:  "  Are  you 
Bully  Ford 

"My  name  is  Ford."  the  -kipper  answered. 
'  If  VMU  choose  to  call  me  Bully,  that's  your  own 
affair.  It's  a  name  I've  been  called  hv.  And 


RIVAL   PIONEERS   OF   CIVILISATION.  25 

I  allow  I  ain't  one  to  stand  any  blamed  non- 
sense, from  blackfellows  or  from  missionaries." 

The  weather-beaten  man  gave  some  order  in 
an  unknown  tongue  to  his  men.  They  seemed  to 
have  implicit  confidence  in  him,  for  they  went 
on  rowing.  The  canoe  was  now  quite  close,  and 
the  missionary  stood  up  in  the  bows.  Then  he 
gave  a  sudden  start.  "  Why,  you've  got  natives 
aboard!"  he  exclaimed,  half  incredulously. 

The  skipper  made  up  his  mind  with  the  rapid 
decision  of  a  man  of  action,  engaged  in  a  dan- 
gerous trade,  and  accustomed  to  face  emergencies 
with  instant  resolution.  He  turned  to  his  men. 
"  Fire  at  them,"  he  said  quietly. 

Two  of  the  men  hesitated.  It  is  one  thing 
to  shoot  unknown  and  nameless  savages;  quite 
another  thing  to  shoot  an  English  missionary. 
But  the  other  two  had  no  such  scruples.  The 
South  Seas  in  those  days  were  fairly  remote;  the 
Queen's  writ  did  not  run  beyond  Fiji.  Two  rifles 
snapped  sharply;  in  the  canoe,  a  black  man  dis- 
appeared into  the  wrater,  and  the  white  man  fell 
back,  wounded,  into  the  arms  of  his  followers. 

Still,  the  foremost  canoe,  in  which  he  lay, 
moved  steadily  on.  The  others  followed  it  at  a 
cautious  distance. 

The  missionary  came  alongside.  He  was 
bleeding  profusely.  "  Bully  Ford,"  he  said  slow- 


Till  iOP. 

ly.  "  I  think  you  have  killed  me.     Hut  thank  God, 
you  have  killed  this  iniquitous  trat": 

The  skipper  gazed  at  him  with  a  shade  of  re- 
morse and  horror.  Then  his  coarse  nature  re- 
asserted itself.  *4  Row  back,"  he  cried  to  the 
men.  "  Back  at  once  to  the  stcan 

Tom  flung  down  his  oar.    "  Back?     he  ci 

nd  leave  him  1 

"  Young  fellov.  -kipper  -aid.  "  : 

ibordinate,  I  shall  know  how  to  deal  with 
you. 

"  Oughtn't  never  to  have  shipped  him.'  1  lem- 
mings murmured  slowly. 

But  Tom's  blood  was  up  now.  "  You  shall 
not  row  back/'  he  cried.  "  You  shall  take  him 
aboard  and  nurse  him.  The  man 

ait    yon    shall    not    abandon    him. — Look 
here,   yon    mates."    he   went    on.    turning   to   his 
fellow-sailors.       "  He's    a    white    man.    anyh 
•:i£  him  on  board,  and  let  him  die,  and  i; 
him  Christian  burial." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation.  Then 
I  lemmings  bent  forward.  "Better  do  as  he 

he  suggested.     "  It'll  save  trotibK 
rds.     Things  are  getting  rough  on  the  isla; 
for  the  Labour  Traffic." 

The  skipper  gave  way  sullenly.     "  Pull   him 
•  d!  "   he  answered. 


RIVAL   PIONEERS   OF   CIVILISATION.  2/ 

Three  of  the  sailors  took  hold  of  the  wounded 
man.  The  Temukans,  raising  a  loud  cry,  seemed 
as  if  they  would  resist.  Tom  could  not  under- 
stand them,  of  course,  but  he  guessed  fairly 
enough  the  general  meaning  of  their  wild  cries 
of  "Oh,  my  father,  stop  with  us!"  "Do  not 
take  him  away!"  "He  is  our  friend,  our  fa- 
ther!" 

The  wounded  man  raised  his  hand  and  said 
something  in  Melanesian  to  his  body-guard  of 
converts.  The  natives  gave  way  at  once.  With 
loud  wailings,  they  let  him  go,  and  rested  on  their 
paddles  in  impressive  silence. 

"  Anyhow,"  the  skipper  said  calmly,  "  we've 
put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel!  He  won't  try  any  more 
to  interfere  with  the  Labour  Traffic." 

Tom  laid  the  wounded  man's  head  on  his  own 
lap,  and  resumed  his  oar,  much  incommoded  by 
the  struggling  and  writhing  natives  on  the  bot- 
.  torn.  "Row  on!"  the  skipper  said  again;  and 
they  rowed  on  steadily.  Ten  minutes  more 
brought  them  up  to  the  John  Wesley. 

They  lifted  the  wounded  man  aboard;  then 
they  began  one  by  one  to  transfer  the  live-stock. 
As  fast  as  each  native  was  put  on  board,  he  was 
carefully  ironed.  The  women  wailed  a  little  with 
low  savage  growls,  but  the  men  for  the  most 
part  took  the  whole  affair  quietly.  They  knew 

3 


2g  THE    INCID!  .  I-HOP. 

well  enough  for  what  tin-  '..  n<>\v, 

and  they  resigned  themselves  to  their  fate  with 
the  stnu-ism  of  the  savage.  After  all,  it  was  bet- 

than  U-in^  cooked  and  eaten,  the  usual  end 
of  their  race  when  captured  by  enemies  of  their 
own  people.  Some  of  them  even  laughed  at  each 
other's  plight;  and  all  took  blows  with  incredible 
composure.  The  sailors  knocked  them  about  as 
drovers  knock  about  sheep.  Nobody  seemed  to 
regard  them  as  anything  more  than  so  much  use- 
ful and  insensitive  merchandise. 

"  Now,"  the  skipper  said,  when  all  was  taut 
on  board,  and  the  "  stock  "  had  been  carefully 
secured  on  deck,  "  off  to  Brisbane  at  once!  The 
sooner  the  better,  before  these  devils  can  get  to- 
gether their  war-canoes  to  attack  us." 


CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  MISSIONARY'S  ILLNESS. 

TOM  had  wondered  on  the  journey  from 
Singapore  to  Temuka  why  the  John  Wesley  car- 
ried so  large  a  crew;  she  had  more  hands  aboard, 
he  saw,  than  any  steamer  of  her  size,  peaceably 
engaged  in  local  trade  of  dried  cocoa-nut,  could 
be  expected  to  require.  But  he  was  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  South  Seas  and  harboured  no  mean 
suspicions;  indeed,  he  had  never  heard  of  the 
Labour  Traffic  before  he  signed  articles  at  Singa- 
pore; nor  had  he  sailed  east  of  Calcutta  on  any 
previous  voyage.  Now,  he  understood  that  the 
crew  was  not  a  crew  alone;  it  was  also  an  armed 
body.  Bully  Ford  needed  a  compact  force  of 
men,  both  to  assist  him  in  securing  native  lads 
and  women,  and  to  prevent  them  from  rising 
in  case  of  emergency.  The  consequence  was  that 
Tom's  services  were  not  much  needed  on  the  re- 
turn voyage.  The  skipper  saw  at  once  he  was 
little  to  be  trusted  on  such  an  errand,  and  pre- 
ferred to  tell  him  off  as  sick-room  attendant  upon 

29 


3o  THE    INCH'!  IOP. 

the  wounded  missionary,  rather  than  let  him 
too  much  of  what  went  on  on  deck  with  the  cap- 
tured V  He's  a  sniveller  at  heart." 
he  observed  to  Hemmings. 

The  missionary  was  seriously  wounded,  in  ad- 
dition to  which  he  had  suffered  so  >r  some 
years  past  from  the  climate  and  its  hardships; 
Tom  did  not  think  he  could  reach  Brisbane  alive. 

it  her  did  the  skipper. — which  was  why  he  tol- 
erated him.     From  the  skipper's  point  of  vi 
it   was  safer  business  to  give  out  that  the  mis- 
sionary had  been  wounded  in  an  accidental  scuffle 
with  the  natives;  and  that  to  prevent  his  IK 
killed  and  eaten  by  his  flock,  the  John  Wesley 

1  taken  him  off  and  tended  him  carefully. 
Bully  Ford  could  thus  turn  his  act  of  piracy  into 
one  of  humanity.  The  man  v.  ire  to  die  be- 
fore they  hove  in  sight  of  Brisbane.  As  soon  as 
dead,  nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  clap 
that  fellow  IVinjjlc  into  irons  as  an  insubordinate 

or;  and  who  then  would  believe  his  un>up- 
por 

The  missionary  was  a  young  man  about  Tom's 
own  age — tall.  wiry,  sunburnt,     lie  had  a  bushy 
beard,  and  a  generally  unkempt  appearance: 
beneath  it  all,  Tom  could  see  marks  of  a  gen 
ous  disposition  and  a  profound  enthusiasm,      i 
nan  Cecil  Glisson.     When  Tom  first  heard 


THE    MISSIONARY'S    ILLNESS.  3! 

that  name,  he  could  hardly  have  believed  how 
deeply  familiar  it  was  destined  to  become  to  him 
in  future. 

The  missionary's  wound  was  in  his  right  lung; 
but  Glisson  took  little  notice  of  it.  He  had 
known  his  days  were  numbered  even  before  he 
was  shot;  and  his  one  hope  now  was  that  he 
might  manage  to  live  till  he  reached  Brisbane, 
so  as  to  put  an  end  by  his  martyrdom  to  this  in- 
famous traffic.  Tom  told  him  the  plain  truth 
about  his  presence  on  the  John  Wesley:  hon- 
esty understands  honesty;  and  Glisson  believed 
him.  As  Tom  sat  by  the  wounded  man's  bed- 
side, preparing  arrowroot  with  Swiss  milk,  a 
friendship  gradually  sprang  up  between  them. 
"  Could  you  read  to  me?  "  Glisson  asked  wist- 
fully, in  an  interval  of  his  fever. 

Tom  hesitated.  "  Read  what?  We  have 
nothing  to  read  here." 

"  Not  a  Bible?  " 

"  No,  nothing  at  all,  except  the  charts  and 
the  South-Sea  Sailing  Directions." 

The  dying  man  hesitated.  "  I  have  a  Greek 
Testament,"  he  said;  "  it's  in  my  pocket  there, 
hanging  up.  I  always  carry  it  about  with  me. 
But  my  eyes  are  too  weak,  and  of  course  you 
can't  read  it." 

"  I  haven't  read  Greek  for  some  time,"  Tom 


32  THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

ind  I  donf1  suppose  I  should 

understand  it.  But  I  think  I  could  just  manage 
to  read  out  the  words,  if  that  would  be  any  good. 
I'll  have  a  try,  anyhow/' 

Glisson  opened  his  weary  eyes  and  looked 
up  at  the  sailor  in  surprise.  "  You,  read  Greek?  " 
he  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  "  No,  no!  Y.-u 
must  be  mistaken." 

Tom  felt  in  the  missionary's  pocket,  and  found 
what  he  sought — a  small  and  much  thumb- 
marked  Testament.  He  opened  it  at  the  place 
where  it  naturally  bent  back,  the  third  of  Second 
Corinthians.  Then,  in  a  clear  soft  voice,  he  began 
reading  slowly  the  sonorous  Greek,  giving  the 
full  value  to  his  open  Eta's  and  Omega's. 

Glisson  listened  with  dreamy  eyes.  "How 
did  you  learn?  "  he  asked  at  last  slo\\ 

I  \\as  at  a  grammar  school  in  Canada," 
Tom  answered.  "  I  learnt  a  tidy  bit  of  Latin 
there,  and  a  little  Greek.  But  what  surprises  me 
most  is  this;  I  never  knew  much:  yet  1  think 
I  un«liT-tand  the  (.reck  Letter  now,  though  I 
haven't  looked  at  it  since,  than  I  did  when  I  was 
icolboy." 

That's    natural,"    Glisson   replied.      "Mere 
age  often  does  it.     You  catch  at  things  bet 
now.    Can  you  follow  what  you  read?" 

"  I  think,  everv  word  of  it 


THE   MISSIONARY'S   ILLNESS. 


33 


"  You  read  as  if  you  did.  You  must  read  to 
me  often.  Go  on  now.  It  soothes  me." 

Tom  read  on  and  on,  and  saw  that  Glisson 
was  right.  Mere  age  told.  He  could  recollect 
fairly  well  the  run  of  the  epistle  in  the  English 
version;  and  the  Greek  suggested  it  to  him 
wherever  he  forgot  it.  Besides,  he  knew  he  had 
a  natural  gift  of  languages.  He  had  picked  up 
some  words  of  Arabic  when  he  was  cruising  in 
the  Red  Sea;  and  even  on  board  the  John  Wes- 
ley he  was  learning  already  a  phrase  or  two  in 
Melanesian  from  the  talk  of  the  poor  creatures 
tied  up  in  pairs  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer. 

Glisson  listened  with  his  eyes  shut.  At  last 
he  opened  them  slowly.  "  It's  like  old  times," 
he  said.  "  It  reminds  me  of  the  days  when  I  was 
reading  for  orders." 

'''  You  are  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land?" Tom  asked. 

'Yes;  ordained  in  England." 

"An 'Oxford  man?" 

Glisson  gave  a  little  start  as  of  surprise. 
"  Oh,  nothing  like  that,"  he  answered.  "  A  poor 
waif  and  stray.  I  was  an  orphan  in  a  Liverpool 
foundling  hospital.  I  had  no  friends  on  earth, 
except  good  Bishop  Patteson.  He  befriended  me 
as  a  boy;  and  when  I  was  growing  up,  he  had 
me  sent  to  a  theological  college,  where  I  learnt 


34 


THE    IN  iOP. 


these  things.  It  was  he  who  had  me  ordained, 
and  brought  me  out  here  to  help  him." 

That  made  Tom  feel  more  at  home  at  once 
with  his  patient.  The  honest  desire  not  to  seem 
more  than  he  was  drew  Tom  towards  him  in- 
stantly. 

From  that  moment  forth,  they  talked  much 
together;  much,  that  is  to  say.  lering  (.' 

son's  condition  The  missionary  told  his  sailor 
friend  all  about  his  youth  at  the  orphanage,  and 
his  life  at  the  theological  college;  more  still 
about  his  work  among  the  savages  of  Temuka. 
Most  of  them,  of  course,  were  still  heathen  and 
cannibals;  but  (ilisson  had  collected  a  little  band 
about  him.  He  In  kfellows;  and  Tom 

could  clearly  ^ee  that  he  longed  to  live  till  t 
reached  Brisbane,  mainly  because  he  thought  his 

•i  death  might   redound  to  the  putting  d« 
of  this  infamous  >l:i 

But  he  grew  worse  daily,  in  the  stilling 
of  his  cabin,  in  spite  of  all  Tom  could  do  for  him. 
His  \\nnnd  \\as  serious.     Each  time  Tom  came 
on  deck,  the  skipper  asked  with  a  grim  smile: 
"  Well,    li-  r    palie:  And    each    time, 

when  Tom  an  ing  WOT 

the  skipprr  nodded,  well  pleased,  and  mutU 

•;ie   words:   "  What  do  the>e   people   want 
to  go  interfering  with  free  trade  f< 


THE   MISSIONARY'S   ILLNESS.  35 

At  last,  about  three  days  off  from  Brisbane, 
Tom  was  watching  by  the  wounded  man's  side, 
when  he  saw  Glisson  suddenly  start  and  lift  one 
hand  up.  Then  a  red  stream  gurgled  from  mouth 
and  nostrils.  Tom  knew  what  had  happened. l 
Haemorrhage  of  the  wounded  lung.  He  was 
bleeding  to  death  internally.  It  was  all  up  with 
him. 

He  held  Glisson  in  his  arms,  very  white  and 
pallid.  The  missionary's  lips  just  moved.  Tom 
bent  over  to  listen.  "  Tell  them  in  England  what 
has  happened — let  my  blood  be  the  last  that  is 
shed  in  this  wicked  traffic." 

He  fell  back,,  dead.  And  Tom  knew  that 
Bully  Ford  was  that  innocent  man's  murderer. 


CHAPTER    V. 

BILLY    FORD'S    LIVE-STOCK. 

ON  deck,  the  skipper  sat  discoursing  business 
with  his  assistant,  Hemmings.  "  First-rate  stock. 
Hemmings,"  he  ejaculated.  He  was  a  judge  of 
slave-fle 

"  Lot  of  trouble  to  get  'em,  though,"  the 
mate  responded. 

"  Ay,  these  missionaries  are  ruining  the 
trade."  the  skipper  admitted,  pensively.  "There 
ain't  no  t\\  al>out  it.  Tlii^  is  as  fine-look- 

healthy  a  lot  of  stock  as  you'd  \\ 
to    see:  yet    he   wants   to  stop  us  from   tak 
them.     Why.  \\hen  I  first  began  supplying  labour 
to  the  Brisbane  market,  we  could  n  co- 

nomically:  hands  could  be  sold  at  a  pound  a 
head,  easy.  No  nonsense  then  about  indent- 
or  contracts.  \Ve  just  came  down  on  an  island, 
carried  'em  off  without  a  word,  and  sold  'em, 
open,  to  the  highest  bidder.  Xow,  they've  got 
all  this  new-fangled  rubbish  about  apprentices. 
There's  no  knowing  where  it'll  end.  Last  time 
36 


BULLY   FORD'S   LIVE-STOCK.  37 

I  was  in  Sydney,  I  heard  talk  of  a  Government 
Inspector  to  sail  on  every  vessel,  and  the  owners 
to  pay  him  twenty  pound  a  month.  It  ain't  fair 
to  capital.  It  'ud  be  the  ruin  of  the  Traffic." 
(The  amenities  of  literature  compel  me  to  sup- 
press the  running  fire  of  oaths  which  agreeably 
diversified  Bully  Ford's  style,  adding  point  and 
picturesqueness  to  his  mildest  sentence:  but  I 
do  so  with  regret,  for  the  skipper's  conversation 
was  estimated  to  contain  a  larger  percentage  of 
coarseness  and  profanity  to  the  square  mile  than 
any  other  man's  on  the  South  Pacific.) 

"  That's  so,"  the  mate  assented.  "  We  are  a 
sight  too  much  governed.  Same  at  Brisbane. 
When  we  got  there,  do  you  mind,  we  used  to 
march  the  stock  in  gangs  to  the  verandah  of  the 
store,  and  leave  'em  there  for  inspection  by  in- 
tending purchasers.  Now,  what  have  you  got 
to  do?  You've  got  to  clothe  'em,  and  feed  'em, 
and  see  they  don't  resist  when  folks  come  to 
buy  them,  or  the  magistrates  '11  say  they  ain't 
willing  immigrants.  Willing  immigrants,  indeed! 
As  if  anybody  believed  it!  What  I  hate  in  this 
world  is  its  confounded  humbug.  If  you're  doing 
a  trade  in  slaves,  why  the  thunder  can't  you  say 
so?" 

"  You're  right  there,"  Ford  replied.  "If 
things  goes  on  like  this,  we  shall  have  to  do  every- 


3g  THK    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

where  like  they  do  in  Fiji — take  off  your  hat  to 
the  natives  and  beg  'em  to  be  kind  enough  to 
do  a  (;  -rk  for  you.  How  k  to  be 

done,  I'd  like  to  know,  if  you  can't  get  the  !><•_ 
We  shall  have  to  do  like  they  do  in  Fiji,  I  say. 
'Very  good;  you  go  along  a  Melbourne  along 
a  me?  Very  good  ki-ki.  Pay  very  good.  Pay 
money.  Plenty  shop.  You  buy  what  you  like. 
You  very  good  fellow;  me  very  good  master.' 
ig  to  a  Kanaka!  Yah!  I  couldn't  stoop 
to  i; 

"  Nor  me,"  the  mate  continued.     '   It  makes 
k  to  hear  'en  no  take  you.  sup- 

pose you  no  like:  me  put  you  ashore  at  place 

•  >ng  a  you.'     And  then,   all   that   rot  about 

iiteen  pounds  clear  at  the  end  of  three  yam 
crop-!  You  no  be  frightened.  Captain  good 
fellow  man;  he  no  fight:  he  no  at  you; 

ity  eat;  plenty  square  gin:  plenty  Mary 
long  a  Malo;  plenty  young  man  belong  a  your 
place:  all   missionary  boy:  me   missionary   man/ 

•'•Kit  the  sort  of  way  for  a  white  man  to  U-l. 
to  niggers?  " 

"  Besides,  it  ain't  humane."  lUilly  Ford  ft 
apologetically;  for  even  blackguards  make  apolo- 
gies to  vir  bring  a  woman  down 
to  your  boat,  tied  hand  and  foot;  and  they  want 
a  stick  of  tobacco  for  her.    She's  got  into  a  r 


BULLY   FORD'S   LIVE-STOCK. 


39 


and  they're  bound  to  punish  her.  But  she  ain't 
a  willing  recruit,  and  you  say:  '  Can't  take  her.' 
Well,  what  do  them  natives  do?  Just  carry  her 
back,  and  roast  her." 

As  he  spoke  the  words,  Tom  Pringle's  head 
appeared  above  the  companion. 

"  What  does  that  sneaking  chap  want?  "  the 
skipper  asked. 

"  He's  dead,"  Tom  answered. 

"  A  good  job  too,"  the  skipper  said.  "  Well, 
throw  him  overboard!" 

"  What,  now — without  waiting?  and  without 
burial?  "  Tom  exclaimed. 

The  skipper  eyed  him  curiously.  "  Young 
man,"  he  said,  with  philosophic  calm,  "  it  strikes 
me  very  forcibly  you've  mistaken  your  vocation. 
A  labour  vessel  don't  pretend  to  be  a  missionary 
ship." 

Tom  glanced  at  the  "  stock,"  packed  on  deck 
like  sardines,  in  the  baking  heat,  and  admitted 
at  once  the  truth  of  this  reflection. 

But  before  anything  more  could  pass  between 
them,  the  mate  jumped  up  with  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation. "  Hullo  there,"  he  cried.  "  Look  to 
starboard,  captain!" 

Bully  Ford  looked  round  and  gave  a  long  low 
whistle. 

Tom's  eyes  followed  theirs.    Away  off  on  the 


40 


;     INCIDENT  AI.    HISHOP. 


horizon,  a  steamer  was  in   slight,  hearing  down 
at  full  steam  in  the  direction  of  the  John  \\ 
ley.     The  skipper  seized  his  binoculars.     Tor 
unaided  sight  did  not  avail  to  tell  him  it  was  a 
gun-boat  cruiser;  but  he  guessed  as  much  from* 

skipper's  sudden  look  of  dismay  and  disap- 
pointed anger. 

Full  steam  ahead?"  the  mate  enquired. 

The  skipper  stared  again.  "  No  good/'  he 
answered,  with  his  usual  quick  determination; 
for,  bully  and  scoundrel  as  he  was,  he  was  a  born 
commander.  "  She  steams  faster  tli  If 

run  for  it,  she'll  run  us  down,  and  the  chase 
will  tell  against  us.  We  must  chuck  the  stock. 
That's  the  only  way.  If  they  come  here  and 
catch  us.  it's  piracy.  I  reckon." 

Tom  hardly  yet  understood  what  this  prompt 
determination    involved;    but    whatever    it    \\ 
he  saw  Bully  Ford  intended  it. 

"Bring  up  that  dead  devil-dodger  first," 
Ford  went  on,  closing  his  mouth  like  a  rat- 
trap. 

The  mate  disappeared.     In  another  minute, 
he  and  a  sailor  came  up,  carrying  Glisson's  body , 
like  a  dead  weight  bet \\een  them. 

Nobody  spoke  a  word.  One  of  the  sailors 
fastened  to  it  a  heavy  leaden  shape,  of  a  sort 
that  Tom  had  noticed  in  a  bunker  on  the  main 


BULLY   FORD'S   LIVE-STOCK.  ^r 

deck,  and  had  examined  with  no  little  wonder 
as  to  what  might  be  their  purpose. 

"  Chuck  it  over  to  leeward!  "  Bully  Ford  said. 
The  gunboat  was  coming  from  windward. 

Without  a  word  of  reply,  the  sailors  carried 
the  body  to  the  lee  gunwale,  which  was  also  the 
side  remotest  from  the  gunboat,  and  flung  it 
over  heavily.  One— two — three,  and  it  disap- 
peared with  a  slight  splash  into  the  angry  water. 
The  wake  closed  over  it.  For  a  fair  sea  was  run- 
ning, and  the  wind  rose  steadily. 

"Now,  below  with  the  stock!"  Ford  ex- 
claimed, without  a  shudder. 

The  sailors  proceeded  to  hurry  the  men  and 
women  to  the  hold,  one  by  one;  Tom  hardly 
knew  why;  but  a  minute  later,  he  saw  it  was  to 
prevent  resistance  and  the  chance  of  a  rising. 
Handcuffed  as  they  were,  they  might  still  have 
given  trouble  had  they  known  what  was  coming. 

One  man  alone  was  left  on  deck  at  the  last. 
Meanwhile,  the  John  Wesley  continued  on  her 
course,  as  if  she  had  never  even  noticed  the  gun- 
boat, though  it  was  signalling  now  from  its  dis- 
tant position. 

"  Weight!  "  the  skipper  said.  Quick  as  light- 
ning, two  sailors  fastened  a  weight  to  the  black- 
fellow's  feet.  "Now,  over!"  They  lifted  him, 
struggling  and  screaming,  in  their  arms,  carried 


42  Tin  iOP- 

him  to  the  lee  gunwale,  and  dropped  him  quietly 
into  the  dark  sea  like  a  bale  of  goods,  as  they 
had  dropped  the  corpse.  With  a  wild  shriek  he 
fell.  The  shriek  was  choked  by  the  ru>hing 
water.  He  sank  like  lead  to  the  bottom.  The 
rollers  closed  over  him.  "  Good  money  gone!" 
all  the  skipper's  comment. 

"  Next !     Bully  Ford  said  calmly.    The  sailors 

•iivjlit  up  another  in  turn  from  the  hold,  where 
Tom  could  see  two  of  their  number  standing 
guard  with  six-shooters  over  the  excited  bla 
fellows.  The  natives  did  not  know  exactly  what 
happening,  indeed,  but  they  suspected  mis- 
chief, and  rushed  about  wildly  or  crouched  in 

:or.    Quickly  and  silently,  with  military  order. 
the  sailors  brought  up  one  man  after  another. 
As  each  reached  the  deck,  a  weight  was  fastei 
with   mechanical    regularity    to   his   feet,    he    I 
carried   to  the  edge,   and,   with   a   "One,    two, 
three,"  heaved  over  into  the  black  water.     The 
monotonous  repetition  of  the  loud  cries,  the  sud- 
•iek.  the  dull  thud  upon  the  surface,  the 
immediate  and  ghastly  silence  as  the  shriek 

led,  ^ickened  Tom  as  he  looked.     He  had  a 
^ue  suspicion  tl.  irn  \\oiild  come  m 

when  they  had  finished  with  the  blackfell<  > 

Time  after  time  the  same  horrible  scene 
curred.      They    \\<>rked    their    way    through    the 


BULLY   FORD'S   LIVE-STOCK. 


43 


men,  and  proceeded  to  the  women.  These  met 
their  fate  with  more  sullen  resignation.  Perhaps 
they  were  better  accustomed  to  brutal  treatment. 
As  the  last  was  just  reached,  a  shot  across  their 
bows  ploughed  up  the  water.  Bully  Ford  glanced 
aside.  "  Ha,  she's  angry,"  he  said,  "  because 
we  don't  notice  her  signals.  But  I'd  knock  this 
ship's  brains  out  on  a  reef,  if  I  could,  sooner'n 
let  her  catch  us." 

He  rang  the  bell  to  stop  her.  The  engine 
reversed.  Then  he  glanced  with  cold  eyes  at 
Tom.  "  Go  below,  sir,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I 
ain't  got  time  left  to  chuck  you  overboard  just 
now;  but  by  George,  if  once  we  run  past  this 
tight  place,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  sneak- 
ing white  body.  A  white  man,  and  you'd  want 
to  side  with  niggers!  He's  under  arrest,  Hem- 
mings.  Mind  you  keep  your  eye  on  him." 

What  happened  next,  Tom  never  really  knew. 
He  slunk  down  the  companion,  but  Hemmings 
did  not  follow  him.  By  a  sort  of  blind  instinct, 
he  took  refuge  in  the  empty  bunk  where  Glisson 
had  lain  dying.  The  missionary's  clothes  hung 
idly  on  a  peg  by  the  door  of  the  cabin.  A  sud- 
den idea  seized  Tom.  If  the  gunboat  came  up 
and  searched,  as  likely  as  not  every  man  on  board 
would  be  arrested  on  a  charge  of  piracy;  for 
pirates  they  were,  and  now  he  knew  it.  In  that 


44  Tln  *  Cr- 

ease, his  protestations  of  innocence  would  a 
him  little,  especially  as  all  the  crew  would  turn 
against  him.  But  supposing  he  put  on  the  mis- 
sionary's clothes?  The  suggestion  was  a  good 
one.  Almost  before  he  had  time  to  know  what 
he  was  doing,  he  had  taken  action — the  action 
that  was  to  turn  him  into  a  different  person. 

It  is  always  one  minute  that  decides  our  lives 
for  us. 

He  changed  his  clothes  rapidly.    Glisson  and 
he  ran  fairly  of  a  size;  but  what  was  more  im- 
portant still,  the  missionary's  kit  was  of  a  rough- 
and-ready  make  which  rendered  fit  unimportant. 
Hi-   garment <  were  not  what   in   temperate  cli- 
mate- \ve  >hould  regard  as  a  sti  erical  garb, 
it  is  true;  a  white  flannel  shirt,  with  a  red  cross 
l>roidered  on  it,  and  a  pair  of  flannel  trousers 
— that  was  Glisson's  simple  uniform.     But  at  any 
6  they  were  (juite  unlike  Tom's  sailor  costume, 
which  would  have  stamped  him  at  once  as  belong- 
to  the  crew  of  the  John  Wesley. 
He  thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  drew 
out              n  leather  case.     It   contained  a  few 
official  letters,  addressed  to  the  Rev.  Cecil  (i 
son.  Teinuka.  with  some  other  papers  which  he 

not  time  at  the  moment  to  examine.     T! 
he  stuck   the  ( ireek  Testament   into  the  other 
pocket,   ami   sat    down  on  a  bunk,   to  await    in 


BULLY   FORD'S    LIVE-STOCK. 


45 


silence  the  next  development.  Naturally,  after 
what  he  had  seen,  he  was  trembling  with  excite- 
ment; but  he  tried  to  calm  himself  and  to  ex- 
pect the  gunboat. 

Another  gun  went  off.  The  John  Wesley 
lay  to,  in  the  trough  of  the  waves.  Night  was 
rushing  on  the  sea  with  tropical  rapidity.  Be- 
low, all  was  dark.  Presently,  he  heard  noises 
above,  noises  that  sounded  like  hurried  consulta- 
tion. Next,  a  boat  shimmered  quickly  past  the 
port-hole  by  his  side.  They  were  lowering  it 
from  the  davits.  In  it,  he  could  just  make  out 
the  dim  heads  of  Ford  and  Hemmings  and  some 
dozen  others.  He  guessed  then  what  was  hap- 
pening. Terrified  at  the  last  moment,  they  were 
abandoning  the  John  Wesley,  and  hurrying  to 
seek  their  fate  on  the  open  Pacific.  Perhaps  some 
of  the  sailors  had  shown  a  disposition  at  the  last 
moment  to  turn  Queen's  evidence.  He  thought 
so  afterward.  But  just  at  that  second,  he  thought 
no  more  about  anything.  For — r'rY — a  sudden 
explosion  resounded  in  his  ears.  The  ship  shook 
from  stem  to  stern.  He  was  dimly  aware  that 
Ford  had  tried  to  blow  up  the  steamer.  That 
was  all  he  knew.  The  explosion  stunned  him. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  with  a  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing been  violently  hit  on  the  forehead  by  some 
flying  fragment.  And  in  that  moment  of  uncon- 


46  Tin    r.  M    r.isiiop. 

sciousness,  so  far  as  the  rest  of  the  world  was  con- 
cerned, Tom  Pringle  faded  for  ever  from  exist- 
ence. 

When  he  came  to  again,  he  had  changed  his 
•  mnlitv.     He  was  no  longer  himself,  but  Cecil 
Glisson. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    OTHER    SIDE    OF    IT. 

THE  few  breathless  minutes  that  Tom  had 
employed  in  tremulously  changing  his  clothes 
down  below  for  Glisson's  were  a  time  of  wild 
haste  and  sudden  consternation  on  deck  for  the 
other  occupants  of  the  John  Wesley.  As  the 
gunboat  approached,  steaming  ominously  on,  an 
embodied  representative  of  the  British  empire, 
their  courage  began  to  fail  them.  Civilisation 
and  law  stared  at  them  from  her  muzzles.  They 
had  murdered  the  blackfellows  without  a  second's 
compunction,  and  now,  it  occurred  to  them  that 
they  had  done  it  in  vain.  For  they  had  a  traitor 
on  board.  That  man  Pringle,  if  he  chose,  might 
round  and  peach  on  them. 

"  I  reckon  we  ought  to  shoot  him/'  Hem- 
mings  suggested  calmly,  as  Tom  disappeared 
down  the  ladder  like  a  rabbit  to  its  burrow. 

"  Can't  shoot  without  making  a  mess,"  the 
skipper  answered  hurriedly.  "  If  they  board  us, 
they'll  search  us;  and  if  they  search  us  and  find 

47 


48  'I'M  i.   IV 

blood  on  the  decks,  there'll  he  the  devil  to  j 
they'll  carry  us  off  to  Sydney  and  try  us  all  for 
pira 

••That's  so,"   Hemmings  admitted.      "I; 
bad  look-out  either  way." 

\\Vd  ought  to  have  chucked  him  over  at 
first  with  the  nigs,"  Bully  Ford  continued,  glan- 
cing round  him  for  support.  "That's  the  only  safe 
way  of  dealing  with  a  chap  who  turns  traitor." 

He  said  it  tentatively,  for  he  knew  it  was  a 
question  whether  his  e  nld  obey  if-he  gave 

such  an  order.     They  were  ready  enough,  r 
true,  to  drop  blackfellows  overboard,  in  case  of 

'•ri^eney:  hlaokfell<>\vs  are  cargo — SO  much 
r  the  market,  to  be  flung  away  when 
it  becomes  necessary  to  lighten  ship,  like  any 
other  form  of  merchandise.  But  a  white  man — 
that  was  different.  He  was  one  of  themseh 
a  fe'  dor  and  a  fellow  creature;  and  if  o 

Bully  Ford  began  flinging  white  men  overboard, 
nobody  could  tell  how  soon  his  own  turn  might 
come:  it  \va<  a  dangerous  precedent. 

So  no  one  responded. 

"  Shall  we  chuck  him?  "  the  skipper  asked  in 
a  low  voice  of  Hemmings. 

Hemming*  cleared  his  throat.     "  It's  pretty 
dangerous  now,"   he   answered   slowly.      "  SI 
drawing  too  near.     They've  got  an  eye  on  us 


THE   OTHER    SIDE   OF    IT.  4g 

through  their  glasses;  if  they  happen  to  see  us 
chuck  anything  alive,  it'll  be  all  the  worse  for 
us." 

"  I'll  risk  it!  "  the  skipper  answered,  making 
up  his  mind  quick.  "  It's  growing  dark  now,  and 
we  could  chuck  him  to  leeward  next  time  she 

lurches "  he  paused,  and  looked  significantly 

at  the  angry  water. 

Hemmings  pursed  his  lips.  "  They'll  refuse," 
he  answered  low.  "  They  won't  chuck  a  white 
man." 

The  skipper  turned  to  two  of  the  sailors. 
"  Fetch  up  Pringle,"  he  said  calmly,  in  an  au- 
thoritative voice.  "  I'm  a-going  to  chuck  him." 

The  men  stared  at  him  stonily.  "  No  you 
don't,"  one  of  them  answered.  "  Not  with  a 
gunboat  bearing  down  on  us.  I've  had  enough 
of  you,  Bully  Ford,  and  I  tell  you  so,  flat.  If 
you  try  on  that  game,  I  turn  Queen's  evidence." 

Without  another  word,  Bully  Ford  drew  his 
revolver.  "You  mean  it?"  he  asked,  covering 
the  man. 

Quick  as  lightning,  the  sailor  had  whipped 
out  a  revolver  in  return.  "Aye,  I  mean  it,"  he 
answered,  pointing  the  muzzle  at  the  skipper. 
"Take  care  of  yourself,  Bully  Ford!  It's  rope, 
or  bullet!" 

Bully  Ford  sprang  back.     He  eyed  the  other 


jo  THi  I'.ISHOP. 

or,  who  had  not  yet  spoken.  In  his  silent 
face,  he  read  the  same  resolution.  A  second 
hand  went  up.  and  two  revolvers  covered  him. 
The  skipper  was  a  resolute  man,  making  his  mind 
up  easily.  He  saw  the  game  was  played, 
er  a  boat !  M  he  cried  to  Hemmings.  "  There's 
traitors  about!  Man  her,  those  of  you  who  are 
with  me!  Better  run  for  it  than  cave  in!  It's  the 
mercy  of  the  sea,  or  to  be  hanged  at  Sydney! " 

iftly.  silently,  with  the  sudden  throbbing 
consciousness  of  a  great  emergency,  the  sailors 
who  were  loyal  to  the  cause  of  piracy  lowered 
the  boat  and  manned  her.  It  was  a  hurried 
moment.  Ford  and  Hemmings  stepped  into  her 
first.  1  he  sea  ran  high,  but  they  lowered  her 
all  the  same  and  put  her  off  successfully.  Till 
the  last  second,  Ford  kept  his  revolver  pointed 
at  the  two  recalcitrant  sailors  who  had  refused 
to  chuck  Tom  Pringle  overboard.  Then,  as  the 
boat  rose  once  on  the  curing  crest  of  tin 
he  took  aim  steadily. 

'What  are  you  doing?"  Hemmings  asked, 
seizing  the  skipper's  arm. 

Let  me  go,"  the  skipper  cried,  shaking  it 
free  and  firing.     "  Do  you  think  I  always  told 
you  chaps  everything  on  the  John  Wesley?     I'm 
a-going  to  blow  her  up!     I've  a  powder  reser 
— and  gun-cotton!  " 


THE   OTHER   SIDE   OF   IT.  5! 

He  fired  with  a  steady  hand,  aiming  straight 
at  a  particular  spot  between  decks  on  the  John 
Wesley.  The  shot  took  effect.  A  white  puff  of 
smoke  rose  almost  instantly,  where  the  bullet 
struck,  in  a  huge  dense  column.  Then  came  a 
terrible  thud;  a  throb  thrilled  through  the  water. 
The  hull  reeled:  the  air  trembled.  As  the  smoke 
cleared  away,  the  place  where  the  two  sailors 
had  stood  was  vacant.  Only  a  mangled  limb  or 
two,  seen  vaguely  through  the  gloom,  repre- 
sented what  had  been  two  human  lives  one  mo- 
ment earlier. 

Ford  glanced  at  the  hull  through  the  dusk. 
"  Hasn't  sunk  her!"  he  muttered  with  a  slight 
tinge  of  regret.  "  But  it's  killed  those  beggars, 
any  way!  And  the  other  skunk,  too,  I  hope. 
Well,  we're  in  for  it,  now,  boys:  civilisation's 
all  over:  there's  nothing  left  us  but  to  try  our 
luck  with  the  savages  in  the  Islands!  " 

And  the  boat  rowejl  off  through  the  gather- 
ing dusk,  before  a  rising  wind,  away  from  the 
explosion  and  the  pursuing  gunboat. 

It  had  all  been  so  rapid,  indeed,  that  half  the 
sailors  in  the  boat  hardly  realised  what  was  hap- 
pening, till  they  found  themselves  alone  in  the 
dark  Pacific,  a  crew  of  proscribed  pirates,  row- 
ing off  for  dear  life  in  an  open  gig,  between  the 
devil  and  the  deep  sea — an  angry  gunboat  be- 


Till  IOP. 

hind,  a  stormy  ocean  in  front,  and   Bully   Ford 
at  the  stern  to  steer  them  to  perdition. 

One  thought  was  uppermost  in  every  m 
breast;  one  voice  alone  uttered  it.  "  It's  done 
now,  and  there's  no  help  for  it;  but  if  only  Id 
knowcd.  I'm  blessed  if  I'd  have  started  with 
Bully  Ford  for  the  Islands.  I'd  rather  have  faced 
it  out,  and  stood  my  chance  for  my  life  at 
Sydr, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LAW    AND    ORDER. 

CAPTAIN  PEACHEY,  of  H.  M.  S.  Avenger, 
stood  on  deck  with  his  Navigating  Lieutenant. 
"  By  Jove,  Byers,"  he  exclaimed,  taking  a  good 
look  through  the  telescope,  "  it's  that  rascal  Bully 
Ford,  in  the  John  Wesley!  " 

"And  we've  caught  him  red-handed?" 

"  Red-handed?  yes.  It's  my  belief,  he's 
chucking  his  blackfellows  overboard  to  prevent 
our  finding  them!" 

"  Another  shot  across  his  bows,  sir? "  the 
officer  beyond  enquired. 

"  No!  That  one  has  brought  him  to.  He'll 
have  to  wait  now  till  we  come  within  hailing  dis- 
tance." 

The  Avenger  steamed  on,  till  she  was  almost 
alongside  the  slaver.  Then  in  the  dusk  the  Cap- 
tain saw  strange  proceedings  aboard.  "  Hang 
me,"  he  cried  again,  "  if  I  don't  believe  they're 
going  to  abandon  her!  " 

53 


54 


THE  INCH-:  I;ISHOP. 


"  They  daren't,  <»n  such  ;i  iii^ht.  and  five  hun- 
dred miles  from  the  nearest  island." 

"  Bully  Ford  would  dare  anything.  Yes, 
they're  putting  out  boats.  \Ve  must  man  ours 
and  follow.  Hullo,  what's  that?  "  And  the  Cap- 
tain paused  suddenly. 

A  column  of  white  smoke  rose  in  the  gloom 
from  the  John  Wesley.  Then  came  a  loud  dull 
rumbling.  They  had  blown  up  the  steamer. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  Avenger  had 
put  out  one  of  her  boats,  and  rowed  through  the 
angry  sea  to  the  suspicious  steamer.  They  rowed 
with  caution;  for  where  there  has  been  one  < 
plosion  there  may  always  be  another.  But  no 
further  noise  disturbed  them.  A  party  boarded 
examined  the  derelict.  They  found  two 
or  three  mangled  bodies  of  sailors  close  to  the 
explosion,  and  nothing  else  alive  on  deck  or 
near  it. 

These  fellows  must  have  been  sick  of  their 
devil's  work."  the  officer  in  charge  said;  '   t 
must  have  threatened  to  peach;  and  Bully  Ford 
has  had  his  revenge  on  them.    It's  no  use  m 
to  follow  him  on  a  night  like  this.  But  the  sea  will 
have  them  yet.     They  never  can  <;et  away  alive 
to  the  New  Hebrides." 

"What  ne  "  the  quartermaster  asl 

"  Search  her  hold,  and  see  if  there  are  black- 


LAW   AND   ORDER. 


55 


fellows  below.  Though  no  doubt  the  rogue  has 
chucked  them  all  overboard." 

The  sailors  went  below.  In  a  few  minutes,  a 
cry  from  them  brought  the  officer  to  the  com- 
panion. "What's  up?"  he  enquired. 

"  A  wounded  man,  sir;  not  one  of  the  crew. 
Has  a  red  cross  on  his  shirt.  Looks  as  if  he  might 
be  a  missionary." 

"  Bring  him  up,"  the  officer  said. 

The  sailors  came  up,  bearing  a  half  lifeless 
body  between  them. 

The  officer  bent  over  it  and  searched  its  pock- 
ets. "  A  Greek  Testament ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  don't  expect  to  find  Greek  Testaments  on 
a  Labour  vessel!  And  a  letter-case  too!  Let's 
see.  '  The  Rev.  Cecil  Glisson,  Temuka,  by  occa- 
sion, via  Sydney.'  Must  be  a  missionary.  What 
the  dickens  was  a  missionary  doing  in  this  lot, 
though,  I  wonder.  He  can't  have  been  their 
chaplain.  Here's  his  ordination  lines — the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  Well,  they've  blown  him 
up  as  well.  Lower  him  gently,  boys;  lower  him 
gently." 

They  lowered  Tom  into  the  boat,  and  rowed 
him  back  to  the  Avenger.  A  crew  was  put  in 
the  John  Wesley,  to  carry  her  safe  to  Sydney; 
and  Tom,  no  longer  Tom,  was  taken  cautiously 
down  to  a  berth  in  the  gunboat. 


56  THI  ;OP. 

He  la\  i>le  for  two  days,  for  a  splinter 

had  struck  him  on  the  temple  and  wounded  him 
bad 

When  he  came  to  again,  the  doctor  on  the 
Avenger  forbade  him  to  talk  for  awhile.  But  he 
treated  him  as  a  missionary.  Tom  did  not  even 
have  to  tell  a  lie  upon  the  matter.  Nobody  ques- 
tioned him.  They  took  it  for  granted  he  \ 
Cecil  Glisson.  The  clothes,  the  letter-case,  the 
ordination  papers,  the  Greek  Testament,  all  told 
the  same  story.  It  ne\fer  even  occurred  to  the 
officers  to  doubt  him.  Tom  drank  his  beef  tea 

held  his  peace  prudently.     After  all,  it 
only   till    they   landed   at    Sydney.      Once    - 
ashore,  he  could  disappear  in  the  crowd,  and  find 
a  berth  on  some  other  ship  either  there  or  at 
Mel' 

He  did  not  alise  how  hard  it  is  to 

appear  in  a  crowd,  when  once  you  have  done 
anything  to  attract  attention.  Tom  Pringle,  the 
mil  anadian  sailor,  could  vanish  into  sp. 

1  no  one  would  miss  him:  hut   Cecil  Glisson, 

missionary  from  Temuka,  was  a  marked  man ; 
nt<  would  be  chronicled;  he  could  no 
more  vanish   unobserved   than  a  prince  of  the 
house  royal. 

fa  he  began  to  mend,  indeed,  the  ship's  of- 
fice: :ioned   him  about   details  of  his  cap- 


LAW   AND   ORDER. 


57 


ture.  The  ship's  doctor,  on  the  other  hand, 
counselled  quiet  and  moderation  in  talking.  Tom 
was  glad  of  that,  for  when  inquiries  grew  too  hot 
and  answers  were  dubious,  he  could  plead  fatigue 
and  gain  time  for  reflection.  "  I'll  tell  you  by 
and  bye,"  he  would  say,  and  lie  back  in  the  fold- 
ing chair  which  they  had  brought  out  on  deck 
for  the  convalescent's  use.  It  was  only  a  tem- 
porary deception,  just  to  save  his  own  life  and  to 
avoid  being  included  in  a  charge  which  would 
be  false  in  essence.  He  salved  his  conscience  with 
the  thought  that  if  he  told  the  truth,  nobody 
would  believe  him,  and  that  to  tell  a  white  lie 
was  to  serve  in  the  end  the  real  cause  of  justice. 
So  he  threw  himself  frankly,  for  this  voyage 
only,  into  Glisson's  part.  He  answered  every- 
thing as  if  he  were  the  missionary.  "  The  ship 
was  Bully  Ford's,"  he  said;  "and  we  knew  him 
of  old  as  a  desperate  slave-stealer.  So,  when  his 
vessel  hove  in  sight,  I  went  out  in  our  canoes, 
with  my  little  band  of  converts,  just  to  let  the 
man  feel  he  was  observed  and  that  his  proceed- 
,  ings  would  be  reported.  I  found  he  had  already 
captured  a  body  of  men  and  girls  who  were  en- 
gaged in  a  religious  dance  upon  the  shore;  and 
I  paddled  up  with  my  crew  to  look  into  the  mat- 
ter. All  at  once,  he  fired  upon  us,  wounding  sev- 
eral of  my  men,  and  myself  slightly.  Then  he 


jg  I  II!  AI.    BISHOP. 

took  me  on  board,  I  1>  ;h  the  intention  of 

letting  me  die  there;  hut  one  of  his  sailors,  who 

blown  up.  poor  fellow,  as  well  as  I  can  judge, 
nursed  me  most  carefully,  and  I  was  getting  con- 
valescent when  the  Avenger  came  in  sight.  Tl 
Ford  horrified  me  by  flinging  all  the  stock,  as  he 
called  it,  overboard;  and  while  I  was  waiting  for 
my  turn  to  come,  this  explosion  occurred;  and 
that's  practically  all  I  know  about  the  matter." 

"  He  shall  be  caught  and  hanged/'  the  Cap- 
tain said,      if  the  Avenger  can  catch  him.     1! 
the  worst  rogue  unhung  on  the  South  Pacific!  " 

Which  was  saying  a  great  deal  as  those  < 

it  among  the  Islands. 

But  the  Avenger  never  found  him.  Whether 
the  boats  foundered  in  the  high  seas,  or  whether 
they  came  to  shore  in  one  or  other  of  the  re- 
moter archipelagoes,  was  never  known.  But 
traders  to  the  Caroline  Islands  will  sometimes 
tell  you  that  a  grey-haired  old  beach-coml 
with  three  brown  families,  who  is  suspected  of 
having  tasted  human  flesh,  and  is  universally 
known  as  Cannibal  Dick,  is  really  Bully  Ford, 
in  the  l»»\\est  stage  of  drunken  degradation.  The 
story  goes  that  he  shot  and  ate  his  last  compan- 
ion, and  landed,  half  dead,  after  many  weeks  of 
exposure,  at  the  harbc*  onape. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    GENTLEMAN    AGAIN. 

IT  was  a  relief  to  Tom  when  after  five  days' 
sail  they  sighted  the  Macquarie  lighthouse  at 
the  mouth  of  Sydney  Harbour.  For  now,  he  said 
to  himself,  he  would  be  able  to  shuffle  off  this 
false  personality  which  he  had  unwillingly  as- 
sumed, and  be  once  more  plain  Tom-'Pringle. 
"  The  Reverend  "  did  not  suit  him.  As  they 
passed  between  the  Heads  into  that  magnificent 
port — the  most  beautiful  in  the  world — Tom  was 
little  engaged  in  observing  the  bold  and  rocky 
shore,  the  fantastic  hills,  the  luxuriant  vegeta- 
tion of  Australian  shrubs  and  orange-trees  and 
bananas.  His  mind  was  wholly  occupied  with  the 
consoling  thought  that  he  had  fairly  escaped  the 
peril  of  being  numbered  among  the  pirates,  and 
could  now  disappear  into  his  primitive  obscurity. 

Still,  he  was  invalided  as  yet,  and  unable  to 

move.     He  suggested  to  his  kind  hosts  on  board 

the  Avenger  that  a  few  days'  stay  at  the  hospital 

might   be   necessary.      But    the    Captain    pooh- 

5  59 


60  'nil  IOP. 

poohed    the    idea.      "  I'rejH^ 

"  preposterous  !       Why,     the     Sydney     people 

ulcln't  even  dream  of  it.  As  soon  as  they 
know  who  you  are,  bless  you,  they'll  be  de- 
lighted to  take  you  in.  One  or  other  of  the  par- 
sons in  the  town  is  sure  to  annex  you.  The\ 
the  most  hospitable  set  in  the  world,  the  Sydney 
folk.  They  would  feel  it  a  slight  on  the  fame 
of  their  hospitality  if  you  ventured  to  suggest 
going  into  a  common  hospital/' 

"  But  I  prefer  to  be  independent,"  Tom  said, 
making  a  feeble  resistance.  "  I'm  a  rough  South 
Sea  Island  missionary,  unaccustomed  to  to\\ 
and  I  have  no  clothes  with  me  but  those  I  stand 
up  in:  I  should  get  on  much  better  among  my 
blackfellows  at  Temuka  than  in  parson's  dress 
in  a  Sydney  drawing-room." 

"  Xonsensc.  the  Captain  answered,  good- 
luimouredly.  "  A  clergyman  is  a  clergyman,  and 
must  behave  as  sich.  He's  none  the  worse  for 
going  out  like  a  man  to  risk  his  life  among  sav- 
ages. I  don't  say  as  a  rule  I'm  fond  of  mission- 
aries, Glisson — seen  a  deal  too  many  of  them — 
they're  ah  ing  us  trouble  on  the  Pacific 

stations:  but  hang  it  all,  when  a  man  is  a  man,  as 
you  are,  and  goes  among  such  rough  savages 
as  those  Temuka  fellows,  prepared  to  d  hat 

he  believes  the  truth — whether  it's  true  or  isn't 


A   GENTLEMAN   AGAIN.  6l 

— why,  I  don't  see  how  one  can  help  liking  and 
admiring  him." 

Tom  winced  a  little.  This  was  hard  to  en- 
dure. To  be  modest  under  praise  for  what  you 
have  never  done  is  trying  to  the  nerves.  But 
he  consoled  himself  by  thinking  it  was  only  for 
a  time,  and  he  would  soon  escape  from  it. 

"  Besides,"  the  Captain  went  on,  "  you've  got 
no  precious  parson  nonsense  about  you.  You're 
a  Man — that's  what  I  like  about  you.  You  can 
laugh  and  talk  and  join  in  with  the  rest  of  us. 
If  a  sailor  like  myself  happens  accidentally  to  let 
drop  an  occasional  damn,  you  don't  pull  a  long 
face  over  it  as  if  you  thought  he  was  straight 
on  the  road  to  perdition.  I  admire  a  parson  who 
can  fight  for  his  beliefs,  but  doesn't  want  to  thrust 
them  down  other  people's  throats.  Leave  your 
quarters  to  me,  Glisson:  when  we  get  into  port, 
I'll  take  jolly  good  care  you're  properly  looked 
after  by  a  decent  sort  of  family." 

This  was  just  what  Tom  didn't  want;  but  he 
dared  not  say  nay.  He  only  murmured  feebly: 
"  But  I've  got  no  clothes  except  these  that  I 
wear.  And  I've  got  no  money.  Everything  I 
had  is  left  at  Temuka." 

"  All  the  more  reason  you  should  be  taken 
in  and  looked  after  by  some  good  Samaritan.  If 
you  landed  with  your  pocket  full  of  money,  and  a 


Tin  IOP. 

clean  white  choker,  you  could  go  at  once  to  the 
best  hotel  in  Sydney.     But,  hang  it  all,  if  people 

•ft  look  after  a  wounded  parson,  who's  been 

\\n  up  by  slavers  because  he  tried  to  take  care 
of  his  own  people,  and  who  returns  to  civilisation 
with  a  shirt  to  his  back  and  nothing  else  much 
to  brag  about — what's  our  Christianity  good  for, 
I  wonder?  Just  you  leave  that  to  me.  /'//  take 

e  that  Sydney  doesn't  lose  its  reputation  for 
hospitality." 

Tom  winced  again.  These  laudations  hurt 
him.  But  he  was  forced  to  submit.  He  must 
keep  up  this  farce  till  he  was  well  enough  to 
move,  and  could  run  away  by  rail  or  sea  to  Mel- 
bourne. There,  he  would  have  a  chance  of  pick- 
ing up  a  vessel. 

Captain  Peachey  was  quite  right  in  his  prog- 
nostication. As  soon  as  all  Sydney  knew  that  a 

unded  missionary  from  the  South  Seas  v. 
aboard  the  Avenger,  and  that  he  had  come  aboard 
from  an  abandoned  and  blown  up  Labour  vessel 
with  nothing  in  the  world  save  the  clothes  he 
wore,  all  Sydney  was  eager  to  show  him  its  har- 
bour and  its  hospitality — those  beinir  in  point  of 
fact  the  two  things  on  which  proud  Sydney  most 
especially  prides  itself.  Half-a-dozen  clergymen 
in  the  town  were  eager  to  put  him  up.  Tom,  see- 
ing there  was  nothing  else  for  it,  selected  from 


A  GENTLEMAN   AGAIN.  63 

among  them  the  one  who  seemed  to  him  least 
obtrusively  clerical.  This  was  a  certain  Mr. 
Strong,  a  rector  in  the  town,  with  a  pleasant 
house  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  suburbs. 
Almost  before  he  had  realised  the  step  he  was 
taking,  he  found  himself  lifted  into  a  comfortable 
carriage,  and  driven  slowly  through  the  streets 
to  his  host's  home  by  the  Parramatta  river. 

Two  things  buoyed  him  up  at  this  trying  mo- 
ment. He  had  never  been  at  Sydney  before; 
and  he  knew  from  Cecil  Glisson's  own  lips  that 
the  dead  man  he  was  half  innocently  personating 
had  never  been  there  either.  So  the  chance  of 
meeting  any  one  who  could  detect  the  deception 
either  way — who  could  say  with  confidence  "  This 
is  Tom  Pringle,"  or  "  This  is  not  Cecil  Glisson  " 
— was  in  so  far  lessened. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  a  pretty  suburban 
house,  ringed  round  by  a  verandah,  and  covered 
with  bright  creepers.  A  girl  of  twenty  stood 
waiting  at  the  door.  "  Olive,  my  dear/'  his  host 
said,  "  this  is  Mr.  Glisson. " 

By  this  time,  Tom  was  beginning  to  get  sick 
of  it.  His  first  impulse  was  to  cry  out:  "Oh, 
no,  it  isn't;  it's  only  Tom  Pringle,  a  sailor  out 
of  work,  from  the  steamer  John  Wesley."  But 
two  things  restrained  him.  One  was  the  fear 
that  if  he  told  the  truth  he  might  be  indicted  as 


64  TH1  XI    HISHOP. 

one  of  a  gang  of  sea  murderers;  the  other 
the  apparently  irrelevant  fact  that  Olive  Strong 
was  distinctly  pretty. 

•A  serious  question  in  the  history  of  order 
the  English  Church  hung  ultimately  on  Olive 
Strong's  appearance  that  moment.  Had  she  been 
less  attractive,  the  doubt  as  to  the  validity  of 
ordinations  in  the  diocese  of  Dorchester  which 
afterwards  agitated  the  soul  of  a  bishop  might 
never  have  arisen. 

Tom  looked  at  her  shyly.    Olive  Strong 
a  vigorous,  well-built  girl,  of  what  we  should  now- 
adays call  the  lawn-tennis-playing  type,  but  which 
was  rarer  in  those  days,  lawn  tennis  not  ha\ 

en  invented.     She  was  tall,  after  the  fre- 
quent Australian  fashion,  and.  very  supplely  1 
her  movements  made  a  pi  ompromise  be- 

tween grace  and  strength;  her  step  was  li^ht. 
hut  her  PMJSC  was  self-confident  with  the  just 
self-confidence  of  youth,  health,  and  vigour,  in 
a  beautiful  woman's  body.  That  was  Tom'.s  first 
impression:  what  he  noticed  most  of  all  as  he 
looked  at  her  that  moment  was  this  abundant 

ise  of  life  and  fitness.    Olive  Strong  was,  above 

apable  woman. 
He  looked  again,  and  saw  next  that  his  host's 

lighter  v.      Not   violently, 

trusivdy.  aggressively  pretty;  certainly  not  pi 


A   GENTLEMAN   AGAIN. 

ty  in  the  common  acceptation,  with  prettiness  of 
the  coloured  chocolate-box  order.  Quiet  strength 
of  character  gave  the  key-note  to  her  face;  she 
was  pretty  with  the  prettiness  that  is  an  index 
of  effectiveness.  Till  then,  Tom  had  always 
vaguely  admired,  after  the  fashion  of  very  young 
men,  the  mere  pink-and-white  complexion,  the 
fluffy  hair,  the  somewhat  hot-house  beauty  of 
the  artificial  young  woman.  He  had  admired 
small  hands,  enclosed  in  still  smaller  dainty  kid 
gloves;  small  feet,  jammed  close  in  tight  high- 
heeled  boots;  a  waist,  too  narrow  for  the  organs 
it  should  contain,  and  still  further  cramped  by 
the  art  of  the  corset-maker.  He  had  admired' 
that  soft  white  skin  which  comes  of  insufficient 
exercise  and  lack  of  exposure  to  healthy  sun  and 
air;  he  had  admired  in  one  word  what  is  con- 
sidered "  feminine/'  but  what  is  really  a  mere 
product  of  the  boudoir  and  the  hairdresser's  shop, 
— violet  powder,  bloom  of  Ninon,  bandoline,  and 
lip-salve. 

Admired  it  from  afar,  for  the  most  part,  of 
course,  for  Tom's  own  position  as  a  common 
sailor  had  not  allowed  him  of  late  years  to  see 
much  more  of  such  women  than  a  passing  glimpse 
in  a  street  when  he  was  in  port  for  a  fortnight. 
Still,  that  was  hitherto  his  ideal — the  laced 
and  bandaged  woman  of  the  fashion-plate,  the 


66  'I' HK    IN'   I  MENTAL   BISHOP. 

blanched  and  etiolated  product  of  an  exotic  cul- 
ture. 

He  gazed  at  Olive  Strong,  and  felt  his 
tions  undergo  a  sudden  expansion,  an  instantane- 
ou-  al.     For  Olive  was  quite  other  than 

this  preconceived  model,  yet  she  struck  him  at 
sight  as  far  more  truly  beautiful  than  any  other 
girl  he  had  ever  yet  hit  upon.     Her  skin 
brown,  a  rich  transparent  creamy  brown,  not  un- 
burnt  by  the  strong  sun  of  the  southern  heavens. 

brownness.  the  bright  col 

on  her  chei  ed  through  it  with  a  red  flush. 

which  deepened  somewhat  as  Tom's  eyes  fixed 

themselves  upon  hers  for  a  moment    with   too 

k  a  glance.     He  had  to  recall  his  clericali-iu 

1  curb  his  eagerness  for  a  second.     Then  the 

•  >r  in  him  overcame  the  pretended  parson,  and 

he  gazed  back  once  more,  to  note  that  Olive 

ly  beautiful  eyes — not  eyes  of  tropical 

splendour  or  of  arch  coquetry,  like  the  ladie- 

the  stage  whom  he  had  most  admired,  but  calm, 

serene,  strong,  able  eyes,  eyes  that  i;  ur- 

ance  of  steadfastness  and  capacity,     1  In  features 

illicit   not  seem  very  delicately  moulded   to  an 

uimbservar.1  they    were    the   features   of  a 

good  woman  and  a  powerful  character  rather  t 

th«»e    of    a    professed    beauty.       Yet    when    Tom 

looked  clo-  'vith  the  rapid  intuition  of 


A   GENTLEMAN   AGAIN.  67 

a  man  for  the  help  that  is  meet  for  him  that  they 
were  really  modelled  with  underlying  firmness 
and  elusive  delicacy.  Even  at  a  first  glance,  he 
noticed  in  particular  a  certain  dainty  cutting 
away  of  the  lid  of  the  nostrils,  which  gave  a  sin- 
gular quiver  to  her  charming  smile,  and  reminded 
him  somehow  of  a  high-bred  Arab.  Taken  as  a 
whole,  Olive  Strong  was  not  fair  to  outer  view 
with  the  fairness  that  would  take  the  most  casual 
observer;  but  Tom  Pringle,  who  had  more  in 
him  than  he  himself  suspected,  saw  at  once  that 
she  possessed  a  deeper  and  a  more  perfect  type 
of  beauty  than  any  that  he  had  ever  yet  learned 
to  think  beautiful. 

He  was  sorry  as  he  gazed  at  her  that  he  was 
not  a  missionary. 

What  had  ailed  him  to  run  away  to  sea  and 
turn  common  sailor?  That  was  his  real  great 
error.  After  all,  he  was  better  born  and  better 
bred  than  Glisson.  But  he  had  thrown  away  his 
chances  for  a  boyish  freak;  and  though  he  loved 
the  sea,  and  had  never  before  complained  of  it, 
it  occurred  to  him  now  with  a  pang  of  regret 
that  he  had  made  it  impossible  for  himself  ever 
to  marry  a  girl  of  the  same  class  and  stamp  as 
Olive. 

It  is  so  delightful  to  find  oneself  with  "  a  real 
lady." 


68  Tin  'OP. 

Fully  to  realise  what  those  hackneyed  \v 
mean,  how<  u  must  have  lived,  like  Tom, 

for  some  years  as  a  common  sailor. 

Olive  stood  on  the  step  of  the  door  and  wel- 
comed him.  "  You  must  make  yourself  quite  at 
home,"  she  said,  with  that  quivering  smile.  "  I'm 
accustomed  to  invalids,  Mr.  Glisson,  and  I'm  so 
very  glad  you  were  able  to  come  to  us.  Not  too 
quick  up  the  steps — we  know  how  you  must  have 
been  shaken.  Captain  Peachey  told  Papa  what 
the  Avenger's  doctor  said — the  real  wonder  \ 
that  you  should  have  escaped  at  all,  when  the 
men  by  your  side  were  killed  in  the  explosi< 

"  Oh,  I  feel  all  right  now,"  Tom  answered — 

and,  to  do  him  justice,  at  that  moment  he  did. 

I  can  walk  quite  well;  it's  only  my  head  that 

es  me  any  trouble." 

Olive  led  him  to  a  long  wicker  chair  on  the 
mdah.     A   passion-flower  draped  it   in   lithe 
festoons.      "  You'd  better  sit    here  awhile,"  she 
said,  "  and  rest,  before  you  go  to  your  room. 
The  doctor  told   us  we  mustn't  let  ert 

yourself  at  all  for  some  days.     You  must  have 
perfect  <jir 

Perfect  quiet!  And  in  such  society!  With  his 
heart  heating  ten  extra  beat-  per  minute!  Tom 
be^an  t«>  feel  more  wretched  and  more  guilty 
than  ever.  Oh.  why  had  he  consented  to  him 


A   GENTLEMAN   AGAIN.  69 

to  begin  this  deception?  He  had  half  a  mind 
even  now  to  brazen  it  all  out,  and  declare  himself 
a  member  of  the  crew  of  pirates.  Fancy  living 
for  some  days  in  the  bosom  of  a  family,  with  this 
charming  girl,  and  palming  oneself  off  as  a  pious  . 
missionary!  Could  he  keep  it  up,  he  wondered, 
— he,  the  most  careless  and  happy-go-lucky  of 
sailors.  And  even  if  he  could,  how  heartily  he 
must  despise  himself! 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  by  to-morrow  or  next  day 
I  shall  be  well  enough  to — to  think  about  get- 
ting back,"  Tom  began,  growing  hot.  Then, 
seeing  the  look  of  surprise  on  Olive's  face,  he 
added  quickly,  "  Of  course  I  mustn't  presume 
to  trespass  one  day  longer  than  is  necessary  on 
your  kind  hospitality." 

"Why  not?"  Olive  asked,  astonished  at  this 
strange  haste.  "  We're  delighted  to  see  you. 
And  then,  we  sympathise  so  much  with  your 
work,  you  see.  I  think  it  so  brave  of  you  to  go 
and  risk  your  life  like  that,  all  for  a  pure  idea, 
among  those  dreadful  savages.  Captain  Peachey 
told  Papa  you  almost  gave  up  your  own  safety 
for  your  people — and  you  were  taken,  defending  . 
them,  by  those  horrid  slavers.  Of  course  one 
ought  to  be  glad  one's  allowed  to  do  anything 
for  those  who  will  do  so  much  for  others." 

Tom's  face  was  fiery  hot.     This  was  more 


than  he  could  endure.  "  I — I  have  done  noth- 
ing," he  answered.  "  Nothing,  nothing  at  all, 
I  assure  you.  I'm  afraid  you  misunderstand.  I 
— I  couldn't  help  being  taken  prisoru  Then 
a  certain  sense  of  loyalty  to  poor  dead  Glisson 
closed  his  lips  once  more.  It  was  of  Glisson  she 
i  speaking,  not  of  his  own  doings.  How  could 
he  dissociate  the  tangled  personalities?  how  ven- 
ture to  make  light  of  that  brave  fellow's  acts? 
For  though  he  had  only  been  a  few  days  in  Glis- 
son's  company  on  the  John  Wesley,  he  had 
learned  to  appreciate  and  admire  to  the  full  the 
<  ngth  and  devotion  of  that  simple,  manly, 
single-hearted  young  Englishman. 

He  grew  hotter  and  redder  still  as  he  thought 
of  this  treachery.     And  Olive,  who  saw  it.  put 

11  down  to  the  brave  young  missionary's  « 
cessive  modesty.     His  \rr\   discomfiture  told  in 
ln>  favour    The  more  he  floundered,  the  bet 
she  thought  of  him. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

ENTANGLEMENT. 

THREE  days  later,  the  Rev.  Cecil  Glisson, 
alias  Tom  Pringle,  sat  on  the  verandah  of  the 
Strongs'  house  on  the  Parramatta  River,  look- 
ing out  with  dazed  eyes  towards  the  beautiful 
harbour.  He  was  a  Reverend  indeed:  in  the 
clothes  which  he  wore,  Tom  hardly  knew  him- 
self. For  there  he  sat,  rigged  out  in  a  com- 
plete suit  of  black  clerical  broadcloth,  hastily 
made  to  measure  by  the  best  tailor  in  Sydney. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  had  protested  on  four  dif- 
ferent grounds,  personal,  economical,  moral,  and 
sartorial,  against  this  complete  transformation 
of  his  outer  man:  his  host  maintained  that  a 
clergyman  in  Sydney  must  dress  as  Sydney  does: 
he  must  wear  the  accepted  clerical  clothes  of  a 
civilised  parish:  and  Tom,  after  fighting  a  los- 
ing battle  all  along  the  line,  had  finally  retired 
from  the  contest,  discomfited.  The  financial  ar- 
gument was  a  strong  one.  He  declared  he  had 
no  means  to  pay  for  his  new  suit,  having  arrived 

71 


'III!  iOP. 

in  Sydney  without  a  penny  to  l>le>-  himself:   Mr. 
Strong   replied    that    as   local    sc.  of    the 

(lunch  of  England   Missionary  Society  it 

duty  to  see  to  the  proper  clothing  of  ship- 
u  recked  or  destitute  missionaries,  and  that  Tom 
must  Milnnit  to  his  superior  officer.  Then  Tom 
urged  feebly  that  he  could  never  wear  it  when 
he  returned  to  Temuka;  to  which  Mr.  Strong 
rejoined  that  his  return  to  Temuka  was  a  prob- 
lematical event,  after  the  harm  inflicted  upon  him 
by  the  fight  and  the  explosion.  "  We  like  en- 
thusiasm." he  said,  smiling;  "  but  we  don't  de- 
sire our  missionaries  to  court  martyrdom  too 
easily;  the  palm  should  be  won,  not  snatch 
and  V'»/f  want  to  snatch  it."  Tom  blushed  un- 
easily again;  in  point  of  fact,  no  man  on  earth 
felt  less  anxious  for  martyrdom  than  he  did.  He 

psed  into  silence,  and  allowed  himself  to  be 
passively  measured  for  his  clerical  suit  without 
further  remonstrance. 

And  now,  the  hateful  black  things  had  come 
home  in  due  course,  and  Tom  found  himself,  to 
his  own  intense  discomfort,  masquerading  in  that 
very  uncongenial  costume  before  Olive  Strong 
on  her  own  verandah. 

"  I  don't  even  know  how  to  wear  them,  Mi<s 
Strong,"  he  said  apologetically,  conscious  of  his 
o\\n  awkwardness — for  a  clerical  suit  is  not  pre- 


ENTANGLEMENT. 


73 


cisely  adapted  to  the  habits  and  attitudes  of  the 
British  sailor.  "  You  see—  '  he  paused  again, 
for  at  heart  he  was  a  tolerably  honest  young  man, 
and  he  shrank  from  lying — "  at  Temuka,  I  never 
wore  them.  In  the  Islands,  of  course,  we  go 
about  always  in  nothing  but  flannels.  And  I've 
lived  so  long  in  rough  places  now  that  I've  al- 
most forgotten  how  to  be  civilised." 

"  I  like  you  best  in  your  flannel  shirt  and 
red  cross,"  Olive  answered  with  naive  confi- 
dence. 

Tom  fingered  his  moustache  nervously:  he 
was  glad  of  that;  for  in  the  flannel  shirt  he  was 
at  least  himself.  And  he  admired  Olive  intense- 
ly: so  he  was  pleased  she  preferred  him  in  a 
rougher  garb.  Indeed,  it  began  to  strike  him 
that  after  three  or  four  days  in  that  comfortable 
home  with  that  bright  young  girl,  it  would  be 
hard  to  go  back  again  to  the  coarse  life  of  the 
forecastle.  He  remembered  all  at  once  that  he 
had  been  brought  up  a  gentleman. 

"  One  feels  so  much  more  at  home  in  flan- 
nels," he  went  on.  "  I  really  don't  believe  I  could 
ever  get  used  to  these  stiff  black  things.  They 
run  counter  to  my  ideas.  I'm  a  man  of  adven- 
ture. I  don't  love  civilisation." 

"  I  suppose  you've  never  worn  a  white  tie 
— not  since  you  were  first  ordained,"  Olive  sug- 


74 


gested.  i  na- 

tion to  Tennika.  didn't  y<m?  " 

She  was  right  as  to  Glisson.     Glisson  had 
told  him  so  much;  but  still,  why  did  she  kn 
it?     "  How  did  you  find  that  out?"  Tom  asked. 
looking  up  (juickly. 

The  colour  deepened  on  the  dark  cheek         1 
it  in  the  Missionary  Record,"  she  answered 
a  conscious  pause. 

Then  she  had  hunted  him  up  in  it.  Or  hunted 
up  Glisson — which?  This  confusion  of  persons 
was  growing  most  unpleasant.  Once  more,  for 
a  second,  Tom  was  minded  to  make  a  cU 
breast  of  it  and  cry  out  with  fervour:  "  I  am  no 
parson,  no  missionary,  but  plain  Tom  Pringle!  " 
Then  he  bethought  him  of  what  the  Sydney 
papers  were  saying:  if  T.nlly  Ford  and  his  crew 
could  only  be  caught,  not  one  man  of  them 
should  be  allowed  to  escape  hanging.  And  this 
first  false  step  only  made  things  worse.  Had  he 
told  the  truth  at  first,  he  might  have  run  some 
chance  of  being  believed,  by  virtue  of  his  frank- 
ness; now  that  he  had  complicated  matters  1»y 
passively  accepting  Cecil  Glisson's  personality.  ( 
there  was  nothing  left  but  to  go  through  with  it 

:iy. 

He  saved  himself  by  a  prevarication.      *  The 
Record  is  quite  right,"  he  said.     This 


ENTANGLEMENT.  -; 

committed  him  to  nothing.  For  the  Missionary 
Record  declared  that  Cecil  Glisson  had  gone  out 
from  his  ordination  straight  to  Temuka;  and  in 
declaring  so  much,  the  Missionary  Record  had 
merely  confirmed  what  Cecil  Glisson  himself  had 
told  him. 

He  paused  a  moment.  He  was  a  very  poor 
liar.  Then  he  added:  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  get 
them  off  again.  Of  course,  when  I  go  back  to 
the  Islands,  I  shall  never  wear  them.  It  seems 
wasteful  to  have  bought  them  for  so  short  a 
visit." 

Olive  Strong  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.  "  So 
short  a  visit!"  she  repeated.  "Why,  how  long 
do  you  think  you  will  stop  at  Sydney?  " 

Tom  was  aware  with  a  thrill  that  she  asked  it 
almost  anxiously.  Then  he  remembered  once 
more,  with  a  pang  of  disillusion,  that  her  anxiety 
was  all  for  Cecil  Glisson.  And  yet! — And  yet, 
it  was  he  himself,  not  Cecil  Glisson,  that  she  saw 
before  her.  If  she  was  interested  in  anybody,  it 
was  surely  himself.  The  disentanglement  of  the 
personalities  grew  each  moment  more  difficult. 

"  As  soon  as  I  am  well  enough,  I  think  I 
ought  to  go  back,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Glisson!" 

She  said  no  more  than  that,  but  then,  she 

looked  at  him.     Tom  felt  her  eyes  go  through 
6 


i) 

and  through  him.  He  wriggled  uncomfortably 
in  his  stiff  new  suit.  He  was  aware  that  thi<  < 
dent  eagerness  to  run  away  was  a  poor  return 
for  the  Strongs'  marked  kindness.  Was  ever  fel- 
low placed  in  a  more  awkward  predicament?  He 
had  to  choose  between  nide  ingratitude  on  the 
one  side,  and  continued  deception  on  the  other. 
Which  of  the  two  should  it  be?  He  looked  hard 
at  (  '  tee. — and  deception  carried  it. 

"  Well,  everybody  at  Sydney  has  been  SO 
kind."  he  said  c\aM\ely.  "  that  of  course  I  should 
to  stop  as  long  as  possible;  on  some  ac- 
counts,"— his  eye  met  hers — "  I  should  like  to 
stop  ...  for  an  indefinite  period.  But  then — I 
have  duties;  my  duties  call  me."  His  face  \ 
now  in  a  fine  red  ^low.  He  paused,  and  felt  him- 
self a  consummate  hypocrite. 

Olive  looked   up   sharply.      "  But  you're 
going  back  to  Temuka?"  she  said,  with  a  dis- 
tinct flutter. 

Tom's  heart,  like  the  Homeric  heroV 
divided  two  ways  within  him.     As  Tom  Priii. 
he  felt  inclined  to  say:  "Oh,  certainly  not;"  as 
Cecil  Gli-sou.  he  felt  constrained  to  affect  a  pro- 
fessional interest  in  the  well-being  of  the  nati 
He  took  refuge  once  more  in  a  safe  generality. 
"A  man  mustn't  be  daunted  by  one  first  disap- 
pointment." he  UCly;   "  by  <>ne  ; 


ENTANGLEMENT. 


77 


difficulty.  To  put  one's  hand  to  the  plough  and 
then  turn  back  is  bad.  Apart  from  anything  else, 
it  shows  lack  of  courage." 

"  I  don't  think  anybody  would  suspect  you 
of  want  of  courage,"  Olive  answered  with  convic- 
tion. And  once  more  Tom  .coloured.  The  re- 
mark was  true  enough,  even  as  applied  to  him- 
self; for  Tom  had  the  usual  endowment  of  the 
British  sailor  in  that  respect;  he  was  by  no  means 
a  coward:  but  he  knew  the  praise  was  intended 
for  Glisson,  and  it  made  him  uncomfortable. 
Olive  noticed  his  blush,  and  thought  all  the  bet- 
ter of  him  for  it.  "  He's  as  modest  as  he's  brave," 
she  said  to  herself  admiringly.  As  a  rule,  to  be 
sure,  she  was  not  attracted  by  curates;  but  this 
bronzed  and  weather-beaten  young  missionary  (as 
she  naturally  thought  him),  with  his  frank  sailor 
face  and  his  shy  sailor  manners,  was  only  a  parson 
by  the  accident  of  orders.  In  essence  she  felt— 
and  felt  more  truly  than  she  knew — he  was  of 
the  genus  explorer,  a  daring  young  fellow  who 
took  his  life  in  his  hands,  and  accepted  mission 
work  with  the  eager  delight  of  a  boy  in  a  danger- 
ous adventure.  She  noticed,  indeed,  that  when 
he  talked  of  his  own  life  (which  was  seldom)  he 
dwelt  little  on  professional  details,  but  spoke 
much  of  the  sea,  the  fight  with  the  Labour  vessel, 
the  delights  of  roughing  it,  the  savagery  of  the 


-8  TII:  iOP. 

natives.  Olive  had  lived  long  enough  in  a  cleri- 
family  to  be  just  a  trifle  sick  of  the  slang  of 
parochialism;  but  this  South  Sea  Island  parson 
in  the  flannel  shirt  seemed  to  her  a  totally  new 
species — and  no  wonder. 

1  don't  think  you  ought  to  go  back,"  she 
interposed  after  a  pause.  "  You  know  now  how 
dangerous  it  is.  liven  if  you  don't  mind  for 
yourself,  you  should  consider  others — your  moth- 
er, for  instance,  or  your  sisters." 

I  have  no  mother,"  Tom  answered,  turn- 
ing toward-  her  as  he  spoke,  and  catching  his 
neck  on  that  horrid  round  collar.  "  She  died 
years  ago,  my  dear  good  mother.  And  I  m 

Which  was  true,  every  word  of  it. 
both  of  himself  and  the  man  he  personated. 
1  hen  he  prevaricated  again.  "  If  you  looked  up 
the  name  0  n  in  the  Missionary  Recor 

he  added.  "  didn't  it  mention  that  thp  fellow  came 
out  of  a  Liverpool  orphanage?" 

"It  did."  Olive  replied,  admiring  him  still 
more  for  his  honest  frankness  and  complete  ab- 
sence of  snobbery.  "  But  then,  I  thought  per- 
haps that  might  only  mean  that  you  had  lost 
your  father." 

I   have  lost  both  parents."  Tom  answered, 
"  and    1    was  an   only   son."     Which   attain 
equally  true  of  himself  and  of  Glisson.     Then  he 


ENTANGLEMENT.  79 

plunged  once  more.  "  I  think,"  he  went  on,  the 
thought  really  occurring  to  him  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  "  only  people  without  home  ties 
ought  ever  to  undertake  missionary  work.  It's 
too  dangerous  for  men  with  mothers  and  sisters 
— it  puts  too  great  a  strain  on  their  affections. 
Apart  from  the  possibilities  of  being  killed  and 
eaten,  just  think  what  torture  it  must  be  for  a 
mother  who  loves  one  to  wait  months  together 
without  the  chance  of  a  letter — and  with  all  the 
terrors  of  a  tropical  climate  and  the  caprices  of 
savages  vividly  before  her  mind  all  the  time  in 
the  night  watches." 

"  You're  quite  right,"  Olive  answered.  "  I 
never  thought  of  that  before.  But  I  see  it  now. 
It  must  be  really  terrible.  .  .  .  Yet  some  mis- 
sionaries even  take  their  wives  out  with  them." 

"  And  have  children  born  to  them  in  the 
Islands;  yes;  they  do:  but  do  you  think  it  is 
right,  it  is  fair  to  a  woman?  I  don't.  A  man  may 
risk  his  own  life  if  he  likes,  especially  in  a  good 
cause;  it's  his  own  to  chuck  away,  his  own  to 
gamble  with — I  mean,  to  use  for  what  he  thinks 
the  highest  purpose."  (Very  difficult  for  a  sailor 
to  assume  all  at  once  this  new  professional  man- 
ner!) "  But  his  wife's  and  his  children's, — no! 
There  are  dangers  to  which  no  man  should  expose 
a  woman — least  of  all  a  woman  he  loves.  And  his 


8o  'i  in-:   DfCn>]  !OP. 

little  children!  Do  you  remember  how  those 
missionaries'  families  were  massacred  and  tor- 
tured in  Madagascar?  It  makes  me  feel  that  no 
man  should  ever  take  a  wife  with  him  on  such 
edition."  And  he  shuffled  in  his  clothes, 
for  the  collar  galled  him. 

Olive  paused  to  consider.  "  I  think  you're 
right,"  she  said  at  last. — "  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple, for  the  man.  And  yet — it's  very  hard  that 

i  who  are  exposed  to  such  risks  should  not 
be  cheered  and  encouraged  by  the  consolation  of 

fe's  care,  a  lp.  a  wife's  sympathy." 

After  that,   there  was  a  long  pause.     Tom 

Mt  it  in  reflecting  that  if  he  mi-Monary. 

and  he  laid  a  chance  of  winning  such  a  girl 
Olive,  lie  would  certainly  not  take  her  to  Teinuka. 
to  be  cooked  and  eaten.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  put  tin-  one's  hand  to  the  plough  and 
not  looking  back;  for  a  celibate  clergy,  that  was 
an  excellci  A  monk  mi-lit  stick  to  it. 

I.ut  if  yon  were  going  to  marry  a  wife  like  Olive 
— hang  it   all.  yon  ought   to  govern  yourself  ac- 
cordingly, and  make  a  home  fit  for  her.     Th 
could  be  no  great  merit  in  marrying  a  wife,  and 

>osing  her  to  risks  too  horrible  to  contemplate. 
Such  vicarious  martyrdom  in  no  way  suited 
Tom's  sailor  nature. 

As  for  Olive,  she  spent  the  same  moments  in 


ENTANGLEMENT.  gt 

reflecting  that  Mr.  Glisson  was  a  charming  young 
man, — so  simple,  so  brave,  so  candid,  so  honest; 
and  that  it  was  a  pity  he  thought  of  going  back 
to  Temuka — especially  if  he  meant  to  go  alone, 
and  thought  it  positively  wrong  to  take  a  wife 
out  with  him.  She  certainly  wouldn't  care  to 
live  at  Temuka  herself;  the  isolation  and  the 
danger  must  both  be  terrible:  and  if  a  young 
man  such  as  Mr.  Glisson  were  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him — which  of  course  was  improbable — she 
would  much  prefer  he  should  make  her  a  home 
in  New  South  Wales  or  in  England.  Theoret- 
ically, she  was  an  ardent  supporter  of  foreign 
missions — it  was  her  duty  as  her  father's  daugh- 
ter to  be  so;  but  practically  and  personally  she 
felt  that  not  every  one  is  called  to  this  difficult 
work,  and  that,  unless  you  have  a  call,  it  would 
be  foolish  to  embark  in  it.  Which  showed 
Olive's  good  sense;  for  no  more  people  are  fitted 
to  be  missionaries  than  to  be  scientific  explorers; 
and  a  missionary  who  is  not  to  the  manner  born 
makes  his  own  life  wretched,  without  doing  much 
good  to  anybody  else's. 

Glisson,  the  real  Glisson,  was  a  missionary 
born.  He  had  that  ardent  love  of  universal  hu- 
manity, black,  white,  or  brown,  which  is  essen- 
tial to  success  in  his  chosen  calling:  and  he  had 
also  that  buoyant  hope,  that  unfailing  energy 


g2  Till  !OP. 

which  alone  can  sustain  a  man  through  the  d 
appointments  and  failures  of  a  life  spent  in  trying 
to  raise  lower  natures  to  a  height  far  above  tlu 
He  had  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity.     Tom.  \ 

^  only  an  amiable  and  adventurous  youni; 
sailor,  felt  consciou^  h<>\\  difficult  it  was  for  him 
to  sustain  the  part  of  such  a  fervent  apostle. 
Fortunately,  he  thought  to  himself,  he  had  only 
to  do  it  for  a  few  days  longer,  and  then,  he  could 
get  a  \\.iy  and  be  once  more  a  mere  boisterous 

•ish  sailor. 

In  which  case,  of  course,  he  must  say  good- 
for  ever,  to  Oli 

That  was  a  painful  consequence  of  his  half- 
unwilling  deception.     For  he  began  to  Ix 
that  in  tho^-  u-\\   short  days  Olive  had  come  to 
nu-aii  a  great  deal  to  him. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    COMPLETE    CASUIST. 

ACCIDENT,  I  hold,  is  answerable  for  much  in 
most  human  lives;  it  was  answerable  for  almost 
everything  in  Tom  Pringle's.  When  he  first  de- 
cided to  change  his  clothes  hurriedly  for  Cecil 
Glisson's  in  the  cabin  of  the  John  Wesley,  on  that 
critical  evening,  he  had  certainly  no  deeper  in- 
tention than  to  escape  for  the  moment  from  an 
awkward  predicament  into  which  chance  had  led 
him.  He  had  taken  a  berth  on  the  Labour  vessel 
without  the  faintest  idea  of  the  true  nature  of 
the  trade  in  which  she  was  engaged;  that  first 
unfortunate  step  had  involved  his  taking  an  un- 
willing part  in  the  fight  and  the  capture  of  the 
blackfellows. 

When  he  saw  the  Avenger  bearing  down  upon 
Bully  Ford,  he  had  had  no  thought  beyond  that 
of  putting  himself  visibly  on  the  right  side,  and 
disclaiming  all  share  in  the  John  Wesley's  nefari- 
ous proceedings.  Most  assuredly  he  had  not  an- 
ticipated masquerading  for  a  whole  week  in  cler- 

83 


S4  'I'M  I  M. 

ical  dress  as  the  dead  man's  representati 
soon  as  he  discovered  into  what  difficulties  this 
one  false  step  had  landed  him.  his  sole  anxiety 
next  to  get  free  from  the  coils  of  his  decep- 
tion. He  desired  to  leave  Sydney  as  early  as 
possible;  he  wanted  to  find  some  homeward- 
bound  ship  on  which  he  could  bury  himself  once 
more  in  his  native  obscurity.  Meanwhile,  he  had 
a  sense  that  he  was  acting  in  private  theatric- 
dressed  up  for  the  singularly  uncongenial  part  of 
an  English  curate. 

But  the  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against 
Tom  Pringle,  and  slowly  compelled  him  to  a  con- 
tinued deception.  He  was  not  well  enough  to 
go  out  for  a  week  after  he  reached  Sydney.  As 
soon  as  he  could  move  with  safety,  he  determined 
in  his  own  soul  that  he  \\<>tild  slink  away  in  << 
son  <>ss  shirt;  sell  his  uncomfortable  new 

black  parson  suit  for  what  it  would  fetch  at  a 
marine  store  dealer's;  buy  such  other  clothes 
as  he  could  obtain  with  the  money;  and  then  sign 

icles  for  any  voyage  to  any  port  on  earth. 
provided  only  he  could  at  once  shuffle  off  this 
uncomfortable  personality  which  his  own  ra>h 
act  had  foolishly  thrust  upon  him. 

Here  again,  however,  the  fates  were  un; 
pitions.     On  the  morning  when  he  confidently 
hoped  to  get  away,  he  had  a  relapse,  no  doubt 


THE    COMPLETE 'CASUIST.  85 

through  nervous  anxiety,  and  had  to  yield  himself 
up  once  more  to  Olive's  nursing.  And  Olive's 
nursing  was  always  so  delightful  that  he  felt  in 
his  heart  he  could  be  only  half  sorry  for  it.  Of 
course,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  fall  in  love 
with  that  girl.  It  would  be  madness — under  the 
circumstances:  nay,  worse,  it  would  be  dishon- 
ourable. He  was  only  a  common  sailor,  however 
well  born — for  his  father  had  been  a  gentleman; 
and  if  Olive  showed  some  slight  liking  for  him, 
no  doubt  that  was  only  because  she  thought  he 
was  Cecil  Glisson.  Though  to  be  sure,  if  it  came 
to  that,  is  it  not  rather  the  concrete  man  now  and 
here  before  a  girl  that  she  falls  in  love  with,  not 
his  name  or  antecedents?  If  you  fall  in  love,  do 
you  not  fall  in  love  with  a  person  rather  than 
with  a  profession?  These  were  pregnant  ques- 
tions. Still,  it  was  absurd  in  any  case  for  him  to 
think  about  Olive.  And  if  Olive  thought  about 
him,  his  clear  duty  as  a  man  of  honour  was  to 
pretend  to  ignore  it.  Indeed,  what  else  could 
he  do?  It  would  be  useless  to  win  Olive's  heart 
as  the  Reverend  Cecil  Glisson,  and  then  have  to 
confess  he  was  plain  Tom  Pringle,  able-bodied 
mariner,  without  a  penny  in  the  world,  and  with 
not  the  faintest  chance  of  ever  supporting  a  wife 
of  her  quality. 

Meanwhile,   to  make   things  worse,   Sydney 


86  THI  :OP. 

did  not  allow  the  supposed  parson  to  rest  at 
peace  in  his  convalescence.  They  had  caught 
a  hero,  and  they  meant  to  lionize  him.  On  the 
Thursday  of  that  week.  t\\o  clergymen  call 
with  Mr.  Strong  to  back  them  up,  and  made  the 
HIT  1.  the  wholly  incredible  request  that 

Tom  would  preach  in  aid  of  the  Mission  Fund  to 
the  South  Seas  on  Sunday. 

Tom  preach!  He  had  never  even  dreamt  of 
that  appalling  possibility.  It  was  too  absurd. 
His  horror  and  consternation  showed  themselves 
legibly  on  his  face.  Preach — in  a  church!  Oh, 
dear  us! 

44  Not  at  all,"  his  host  said  blandly — for  he 
a  suave  parson  don't  want  a  set  seim«>n. 

(llisson.     What  our  people   would  like  best   to 
hear  is  a  plain  account  in   simple  language  of 

IT  own  mission." 

Temuka  indeed!  Where  he  had  spent  one 
wild  day!  What  on  earth  could  he  tell  them 
of  r 

There  is  a  legal  and  moral  maxim  that  no  one 

omes  of  a  sudden  a  blackguard — nemo 
pente  fit   turpissimus.     And  Tom   did   not   de- 
scend at  once  into  the  lowest  depths  of  duplicity. 
I  tell  you  all  this,  at  some  length,  because,  unless 
I  told  you  step  by  step  how  the  gl  reption 

arose,  you  would  think  more  hardly  of  him  than 


THE   COMPLETE   CASUIST.  8/ 

the  circumstances  justify.  You  would  set  him 
down,  sans  phrase,  as  an  unmitigated  scoundrel; 
when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  to  some  extent 
merely  the  victim  of  circumstances. 

This  first  naked  suggestion  that  he  should 
clothe  himself  in  a  surplice  and  mount  the  steps 
of  a  pulpit  to  expound  the  Word  struck  his 
mind,  indeed,  as  a  horrible  profanity.  He  did 
not  plot  and  scheme  to  personate  a  clergyman; 
certainly  he  did  not  rush  into  it  with  deliberate 
hypocrisy.  On  the  contrary  he  drew  back  from 
the  consequences  of  his  act  with  genuine  fear 
and  unfeigned  horror.  "  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  taken 
aback.  "  I  could  never  dream  of  preaching." 
Then,  the  necessity  for  keeping  up  the  farce  re- 
curred to  him,  and  he  added  hastily,  as  an  after- 
thought, "  before  an  educated  congregation  such 
as  one  would  have  at  Sydney."  It  was  only  just 
in  time  that  he  remembered  to  say  "  congrega- 
tion "  instead  of  "  audience  " — the  word  that  had 
first  naturally  occurred  to  him. 

Mr.  Strong,  however,  would  hear  of  no  re- 
fusal. Tom  pleaded  ill-health.  Very  well,  then; 
if  not  this  week,  why,  next.  Tom  declared  he 
had  never  preached  to  a  body  of  English  hearers. 
Oh,  that  was  not  what  they  wanted;  they  did 
not  care  for  a  discourse  full  of  orthodox  doc-' 
trine;  they  would  like  to  have  just  some  plain 


88  Tin 

account  of  his  own  work  and  his  strange- 
tures.     Much  talking  at  last  .\vn  all  op- 

position.    '  rne  by  their  importunity,  Tom 

consented  in  the  end,  for  the  sake  of  peace  and 
quiet,  reserving  in  his  own  soul  the  silent  deter- 
mination to  contract  on  the  fatal  day  a  sudden 
indisposition. 

( )live  for  her  part  was  much  interested  in 
this  sermon.  "  I  don't  think,  Mr.  Glisson."  she 
said,  "you  ought  exactly  to  preach  to  thorn. <f 
She  liked  and  admirod  her  young  missionary,  and 
she  thought  him  clover,  too;  but  she  doubted 
whether  his  cleverness  ran  in  the  direction  of 
hortatory  discourse.  "  \Vliy  shouldn't  you  talk 
to  them  just  as  •  •  >  us  here,  about  the 

wickodness  of  this  Labour  trade,  and  the  neces- 
Mty  for  doing  something  to  put  down  its  hor- 
ror^ 

"  That  would  hardly  bo  churchy."  Tom  inter- 
posed, very  dubiously. 

"  I  don't  think  the  apostles  cared  much 
whether  things  were  churchy."  (  Hive  answered 
with  common  sense.  "And  I  know  that's  not 

:r-df.  At  Temuka,  I'm  sure,  yon  didn't  think 
about  churchiness.  You  were  satisfied  to  be 

pie      Here,  you're  filled  with   the  idea  that 

taey'fl  a  town,  and  that  what  was  good 

enough  for  Temuka  wouldn't  be  good  «. 


THE   COMPLETE   CASUIST.  89 

for  us.  But  I  can  see  you  are  horrified  and  in- 
dignant at  this  wicked  slave-trading  that  goes  on 
almost  unchecked  under  our  own  flag;  why  don't 
you  just  stand  up  in  a  pulpit  and  say  so  in  your 
own  way — tell  them  what  you've  told  Papa  and 
me  here  alone  in  the  evenings?  It  would  be 
real:  it  would  be  genuine.  And  it  would  do 
more  good  than  a  great  many  sermons — which 
you  and  I  know  nobody  ever  listens  to." 

Tom  thought  the  notion  a  good  one — as  far  as 
it  went.  He  didn't  mean  to  go  in  for  the  profa- 
nation of  preaching  in  church  at  all — he  must 
back  out  of  it  somehow.  Still,  if  he  had  to 
preach,  (he,  in  a  clean  white  surplice!)  he  really 
thought  he  would  do  as  Olive  suggested.  While 
he  had  nothing  particular  to  say  about  justifica- 
tion by  faith — and  he  felt  himself  lamentably 
weak  in  that  direction — he  had  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  Bully  Ford  and  his  proceedings.  What 
he  had  seen  on  the  John  Wesley  had  stirred  his 
indignation.  His  blood  boiled  at  it. 

Queensland  pretended  it  knew  nothing  of 
these  things:  but  Queensland  was  built  up  on  a 
virtual  slave  trade.  And  then,  he  reflected  that 
he  was  now  in  a  sense  Cecil  Glisson's  representa- 
tive. A  strange  feeling  of  loyalty  to  the  dead 
man  possessed  him.  As  long  as  this  miserable 
deception  lasted,  and  people  still  believed  him  to 


90 

:1  (ilisson,  he  ought  at  least  to  i  in  a 

y  that  would  bring  no  t  upon  the  ar- 

dent young  missionary  whose  place  he  had 
usurped.  If  Glisson  were  alive,  Tom  thought, 
he  would  certainly  go  into  a  Sydney  pulpit  and 
preach  such  and  such  a  sermon. 

As  he  lay  awake  at  night,  wondering  how  he 
er  to  creep  out  of  this  hole  into  which  he 
had  let  himself,  he  thought  that  sermon  all  out  in 
his  head,  just  as  (ili»«>n  would  have  preached  it 
—just  as  he  would  preach  it  himself  if  he  were  a 
real  registered  Ai  parson.  Part  of  it  he  made 
up  from  his  \i\id  recollection  of  the  stirring 
things  Cecil  Glisson  had  said  to  him  when  he  lay 
dying  on  the  John  Wesley,  filled  even  in  death 
with  that  unquenchable  enthusiasm  of  humanity; 
part  of  it  he  supplied  from  his  own  experiences 
on  the  hateful  Labour  vessel. 

He  was  almost  sorry  he  couldn't  preach  such 
a  sermon;  it  might  do  much  good;  more  good 
by  many  lengths  than  half  the  sermons  one  he 
—mere  strings  of  commonplace  droned  out  to 
order  by  perfunctory  parsons.      He  had  sor 
thing  to  say,  and  he  thought  he  could  say  it.     It 
3  a  pity,  after  all,  the  chance  could  never  occur 
for  him.      If  he  hud  heen  a  parson,  how  h<>t   he 
would  make  it  for  the  smugly  respectable  (j 
land  plant 


THE   COMPLETE   CASUIST.  91 

He  thought  that  sermon  all  out  in  every  sen- 
tence and  every  epithet.  He  was  not  aware  of 
it  himself,  but,  being  half  Irish  by  descent,  he 
had  the  natural  Irish  gift  of  eloquence.  Going 
on  with  his  sermon,  he  worked  himself  up  to  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm  in  the  dead  hours  of  the 
morning.  He  half  rehearsed  it  to  himself  in  an 
impassioned  undertone.  He  was  enslaved  by  his 
own  phrases.  What  a  pity  he  couldn't  deliver 
it  as  a  lecture  at  least!  He  found  himself  car- 
ried away  by  the  sense  of  his  own  message. 

And  he  had  a  message.  He  was  Cecil  Glis- 
son  for  the  moment,  with  a  burning  story  to  tell 
of  wrong  and  cruelty.  If  only  he  could  tell  it, 
he  felt  sure  he  had  the  power  to  make  people 
listen. 

He  talked  of  it  next  day  to  Olive.  She  lis- 
tened certainly.  She  was  enthusiastic  about  the 
necessity  for  putting  down  this  vile  traffic,  and 
preaching  a  new  crusade.  "  I  believe,  Mr.  Glis- 
son,"  she  said  writh  confidence,  "  you  would  be 
twice  as  well  employed  in  opening  the  eyes  of 
people  in  Australia  and  England  to  the  wicked- 
ness of  this  labour  trade  than  in  evangelising 
Temuka.  It  is  a  larger  work.  You  would  be 
doing  more  real  service  to  your  people,  I'm  sure, 
than  by  merely  teaching.  And  besides,  you 
wouldn't  have  to  settle  down  again  in  the  Islands 


then:  and  ;il<ln'i   fed  re  turn- 

in-  >ur  hand  from  the  plough  eitl 

Tom  was  a  modest  enough  young  fellow,  not 
apt   to  suppose  such  a  girl  as  O  19  likely 

to  care  for  him;  hut  when  he  posed  as  Glisson, 
he  felt  at  once  that  a  certain  new  element 
imported  into  the  situation.  As  she  said  those 
with  a  faint  flush  on  the  dark  cheek. 
ami  a  slight  droop  of  the  downcast  eyes,  as  if 
hal:  blowing  too  obvious  an  in* 

est  in  her  hearer's  welfare,  it  did  occur  to  Tom 
as  possible  that  Olive  Strong  was  falling  in  1« 
if  not  with  him,  at  any  rate  with  Cecil  Glisson. 
rc  acting  a  part,  and  a  woman  falls 
in  love  with  that  part  you  are  acting,  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  you  to  dissever  the  character  from  the 
actor.     So  Tom  felt  at  that  moment.     It  was  a 
queer  conundrum.    Supposing  Olive  Strong  v. 
in  love  with  Cecil  Glisson,  was  not  Tom  the  Cecil 
Glisson  Olive  Strong  was  in  love  with? 

•m  that  moment  forth,  his  life  became  one 
long  attempt  both  to  entangle  and  to  disentan- 
gle those  two  diverse  personalities.  They  puz/ 

If.      The  Cecil  Glisson  of  the  future 
n   artificial   compror  :i    the   : 

Tom    Prin^lc    and    the    dead    missionary    of   Te- 
mul 

And  when  Olive  said  those 


THE   COMPLETE   CASUIST. 


93 


to  Tom  that  by  doing  his  best  against  that  in- 
iquitous slave  traffic  he  would  in  a  certain  sense 
be  carrying  out  Cecil  Glisson's  wishes.  Fate 
rather  than  deliberate  design  had  forced  him  into 
this  impersonation  of  a  dead  man  whom  he  could 
not  help  respecting;  surely  the  way  in  which  he 
could  at  any  rate  do  least  dishonour  to  the  part 
he  had  been  driven  by  accident  to  assume  would 
be  by  acting  at  Cecil  Glisson  himself  would 
have  acted  had  he  been  really  living. 

Tom  was  turned  by  circumstances  into  a  com- 
plete casuist. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

TOM    PLUNGES. 

TEMPTATION  creeps  from  point  to  point. 
Sunday  came  at  last — that  eventful  Sunday, 
which  formed  the  real  turning-point  in  the  his- 
tory of  Tom  Pringle's  half-unwilling  deception. 
Till  Sunda\  :  was  still  always  possible;  by 

Monday,  it  was  not:   he  had  raised  meanwhile  an 
impassable  bar;  .  the  new  Cecil  <  ilisson 

and  the  old  Tom  Prim. 

He  came  down  to  breakfast  half  undecided 
how  to  act.  He  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  he 
might  plead  indisposition.  But  as  he  entered 
the  breakfast  room,  with  a  furtive  -mile,  his  host 
dispelled  that  illusion  by  saying  at  <»•  <  )h, 

how  much  better  you  look  this  morning,  d 
son!  Y«m're  a  man  again.  I  see.  You've  picl 
up  Milly  in  our  bracing  climate-.  \c\t  to 

harbour.  \   prides  itself  on  its  air:  it 

as  good  as  England  after  a  year  or  two  of  the 
troj 

I'm  so  glad  yor, 
94 


TOM   PLUNGES. 


95 


looking  up  from  the  tea-tray,  where  she  was 
occupied  as  housewife.  "  We've  all  set  our 
hearts,  you  know,  upon  your  undertaking  this 
crusade;  and  indeed,  when  you  can  do  it  so  well, 
we  can  none  of  us  imagine  why  you  want  to 
shirk  it." 

"  Too  much  modesty/'  her  father  answered. 
"  But  tfien,  modesty  is  not  always  an  unalloyed 
virtue.  A  man  should  have  just  confidence  in  his 
own  powers.  However,  you're  fit  enough,  Glis- 
son;  that's  one  good  point;  and  I  haven't  a 
doubt  you  will  find  our  people  enthusiastic." 

What  could  poor  Tom  do?  He  was  not  ec- 
clesiastical, and  the  act  did  not  occur  to  him 
as  a  great  sacrilege — just  then  at  least;  the  hon- 
est historian  is  bound  to  admit  that  he  consid- 
ered it  rather  as  an  awkward  social  fix,  out  of 
which  he  must  extricate  himself  by  a  disagree- 
able piece  of  solemn  masquerading.  Yet  of  one 
thing  he  was  sure;  it  was  no  use  now  to  plead 
indisposition.  As  Mr.  Strong  said,  he  was  fit- 
undeniably  fit.  He  felt  it;  he  looked  it;  and  he 
felt  he  looked  it.  The  fresh  air  of  a  temperate 
country  had  revived  him  wonderfully  after  his 
illness  on  the  Avenger;  and  the  unwonted  luxury 
of  that  comfortable  home,  with  the  equally  un- 
wonted pleasure  of  a  lady's  society,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  making  him  happy  and  lively  in  spite 


cf>  Tin 

of  his  anxiety.     He  was  adventurous  by  nat: 

hance  thrust  this  adventure  upon  him  agar 

will,  why,  he  must  embrace  it,  that  was  all, 
and  pull  himself  out  of  it  as  well  as  he  was  able. 
Though  he  did  draw  a  line  at  personating  a  par- 
son in  the  very  pulpit. 

He  got  through  breakfast  somehow.     II 
he  hardly  knew  himself.     He  crumbled  his  bread 

1  gulped  down  his  coffee.  He  was  too  tremu- 
lous even  to  be  conscious  of  his  stiff  white  chol 
After  breakfast,  Olive  spoke  to  her  father  in  the 
study  for  a  moment.  "  He's  terribly  nervous," 
she  said  (and  her  father,  who  was  a  student  of 
human  nature.  <>1  served  for  the  first  time  that 

spoke  of  their  visitor  as  "  he,"  not  as  "  Mr. 

•is  though  there  were  no  other  /  «  V  in 

:  h  considering).    "  Did  you  notice 

that  he  hardly  ate  anything,  and  that  he  seemed 

quite  t'ri-hU'iu 

I  Ie  is  nervous/'  her  father  answered,  pulling 

clerical  tie  straight  in  front  of  the  glass.    "But 
is  that  to  be  wondered  at?     Remember,   it 
practically  his  first  sermon.     He  never  f 

1  emuka.    He  just  talked  ar  ;ned  things 

in  a  very  crude  language  to  a  set  of  savages.     I 

i-lf   when    1    preached   my    t 
sermon.     But  that  <^re  a  bishop,  and  I 

an  unknown  man;  whereas  Glisson  has  the  ad- 


TOM   PLUNGES. 


97 


vantage  of  a  congregation  entirely  predisposed 
in  his  favour/' 

"  I  shall  make  him  take  a  glass  of  port  in  a 
medicine  bottle,"  Olive  exclaimed,  "  and  drink 
it  in  the  vestry  just  before  the  sermon." 

"  An  excellent  thing,"  her  father  answered. 
"  With  an  egg  beaten  up  in  it.  But  he  will  be  all 
right,  I'm  sure,  when  once  he  begins.  His  heart 
is  in  this  matter,  and  therefore  he'll  speak  well 
about  it." 

At  a  quarter  to  eleven,  a  neighbour's  carriage 
called  for  Tom  by  appointment.  As  the  fatal 
hour  drew  nigh,  he  grew  whiter  and  more  terri- 
fied. The  real  seriousness  of  the  step  he  was 
taking  did  not  even  now  appeal  to  him  from  the 
point  of  view  of  sacrilege:  but  he  was  increas- 
ingly conscious  of  the  social  ordeal.  He  drove  to 
church  in  silence,  with  trembling  knees.  He  had 
not  felt  half  so  frightened  in  the  jungle  at  Te- 
muka,  when  the  blackfellows  were  peppering 
them  from  behind  the  brushwood. 

Through  the  earlier  part  of  the  service  he  sat 
in  a  white  surplice  and  a  face  somewhat  whiter. 
The  terror  of  the  task  increased  upon  him  each 
instant.  When  at  length  the  dreaded  moment 
arrived,  he  had  one  last  impulse  to  rise  in  his 
place  and  cry  aloud:  "I  am  not  Cecil  Glisson; 
I  have  been  fooling  you  all:  I  am  only  Tom 


OP  THR 

TJN  TVER  SIT  Y 


Prince,  an  able-bodied  mariner."     I'.u: 
Olive's  eye,  and  the  M^lu  of  !  d  him. 

The  crucial  moment  went  by.  and  \\ent  by  for 
ever.  Xext  instant,  in  a  breathless  turmoil,  and 
with  legs  that  scarcely  bore  him.  lie  felt  him- 
self mounting  the  pulpit  stairs,  as  if  by  so 

tcrnal  compulsion,  and  saw  a  sea  of 
up- turned    faces   all    looking    toward-    him    and 
ing. 

As  he  stood  there  for  one  second,  pausing 
and  drawing  breath,  it  occurred  to  him  all  at 
once  that  though  he  had  quite  decided  in  his  o\\n 
mind  what  sort  of  sermon  he  should  preach,  if  he 
had  to  preach  a  ^mion.  the  trilling  initial  for- 
mality of  a  text  had  entirely  1  him.  In 
an  ago  .  he  opened  the  big  Bible  «m 
the  rail  in  front  of  him;  opened  it  at  random, 
and  i;a\e  out  the  hr-t  words  on  which  his  « 
lighted.  They  happened  luckily  to  be  these — 
"And  I,  brethren,  when  1  came  to  yon.  came 
not  with  excellency  of  speech  •  MII."  Tom 
tittered  them  mechanically;  then  he  looked  at 
his  congregation.  A  sudden  sense  of  their  con- 
gruity  overcame  him.  "That  is  true,"  he  said 
simply.  "  I  will  :[>]<  you  to  listen  to  me,  not  for 
my  poor  manner  of  delivering  my  message,  but 
because  I  /  u->age  to  give  to  the  people 
of  Sydn. 


TOM   PLUNGES. 


99 


After  that,  he  paused  again  and  looked  round. 
Then,  conscious  of  the  unique  importance  of  the 
moment,  he  dropped  his  voice  suddenly  to  a  col- 
loquial tone  and  began  to  tell  his  hearers,  in  his 
homely  sailor  way,  the  story  of  what  he  had  seen 
on  board  the  John  Wesley.  He  forgot  for  the 
moment  he  was  supposed  to  be  Cecil  Glisson; 
but  as  he. spoke  impersonally,  that  lapse  did  not 
much  matter.  He  told  them  how  skippers  such 
as  Bully  Ford,  sailing  under  the  British  flag,  and 
making  that  flag  hateful  to  the  people  of  the 
South  Pacific,  descended  suddenly,  like  birds  of 
prey  that  swoop  from  the  sky,  upon  those  beauti- 
ful islands.  He  described  with  simple  but  graphic 
eloquence  the  harbour  of  Temuka,  its  rampart 
of  rock,  its  palms,  its  waterfalls.  He  told  them 
how  the  white  men  were  armed  and  trained;  how 
ruthless  was  their  method;  how  their  business 
was  that  of  organised  slave-stealers.  He  painted 
in  the  telling  touches  of  an  eye-witness  the  land- 
ing on  the  white  beach;  the  terror  of  the  first 
villagers;  the  toilsome  march  through  the  tan- 
gled forest;  the  fierce  swoop  of  onslaught  upon 
the  defenceless  natives;  the  seizure  and  hand- 
cuffing of  men  and  women;  the  swift  retreat  to 
the  boats;  the  utter  carelessness  of  life;  the 
treatment  of  the  slaves  as  though  they  were  bales 
of  merchandise.  It  was  a  picture  from  life:  as  he 


100  Til!  IOP. 

spoke,  \u>  hearers  seemed  to  see  it  all  before 
them. 

Then,  still  in  an  impersonal  way.  as  if  he  v 

her  himself  nor  Cecil  Glisson,  he  described 
in  -rds  how  a  missionary  living  among 

these  people,  and  anxiously  endeavouring  to 
teach  them  higher  and  better  ways,  found  his 
and  his  precepts  nullified  by  the 
descent  of  these  cruel  white  fiends  upon  his  com- 
munity. "  Oh  father,"  his  poor  natives  would 
pray  to  their  ancestor  rom  sail- 

gods  who  come  to  steal  us  in  fire-vessels."  He 
spoke  of  the  canoes  of  native  Christians  putting 
forth  with  courage  from  the  little  bay:  the  nn- 

>ected  shot  discharged  at  them  from  the 
slaver;  the  surprise  of  the  missionary;  the  con- 
sternation of  his  flock;  the  episode  of  the  single 
sailor  who  would  not  let  a  white  man  die  un- 

led:  the  nameless  horrors  of  the  passage;  the 
natives  cooped  up  in  their  quarters  like  pig- 

the  total  lack  of  either  comfort   or  de- 
cency: then,  the  approach  of  the  gunboat;  the 
callous  cruelty  of  the  skipper  and  his  crew;  the 
vile  talk  about  the  "stock";  the  sternly 
eal  way  in  which  the  order  "  Chuck  them  o\ 
board  and  obeyed.     It  was  a  graphic 

narrative.      lie  ha  -ith   his  own  eve-,   and 

he  made  hi>   1;>  :'eel   the  realitv  of  what   he 


TOM   PLUNGES.  IOi 

told  them.  The  congregation  listened  spell- 
bound. This  was  not  a  sermon;  it  was  a  genu- 
ine piece  of  native  oratory.  When  he  spoke  of 
the  thud  as  each  shrieking  slave  struck  the  water, 
with  the  silence  that  followed,  a  hush  fell  upon 
his  hearers:  the  whole  church  was  still  in  an  awed 
access  of  horror. 

But  the  oddest  part  of  it  all  was  this;  as  soon 
as  Tom  once  warmed  up  to  his  subject,  he  for- 
got where  he  was;  he  forgot  what  he  was  pre- 
tending; he  did  not  even  recollect  that  he  must 
speak  in  the  formal  dialect  of  the  pulpit:  he  re- 
membered only  his  own  burning  indignation  that 
such  things  should  be  done,  and  that  the  flag  of 
his  country  should  be  used  to  cover  them.  Now 
and  then,  indeed,  he  slipped  out  unawares  some 
sailor-like  colloquialism,  for  which  he  forgot  to 
apologise.  His  hearers  smiled;  but  the  earnest- 
ness and  the  naivete  of  the  man  and  his  speech 
made  them  not  only  forgive  but  actually  appre- 
ciate these  curious  little  lapses.  His  sunburnt 
face,  his  seafaring  manners,  his  plain  English 
wording,  all  contributed  to  his  success.  Every- 
body could  see — or  thought  they  could  see — he 
was  a  plain  rough  missionary,  accustomed  to  the 
simple  life  of  a  Melanesian  island,  and  without 
graces  of  manner  such  as  one  gets  in  town 
churches;  but  they  could  also  see  that  he  spoke 


IO2  '1'HI 


1  lie-art,  and  that   the  things  he 

:l>ed   had   tilled   his   «.\vn   soul   with   the   most 
thrilling  horror. 

At  last  he  finished  with  one  simple  ap] 
"  Now.  what  I  tell  you  is  no  distant  fable.    These 
things  are  being  done,  to-day,  within  a  fortnight's 
sail  of  this  port  of  Sydney.    They  are  being  done 
under  oner  <»f  the  Mriti>h  flag,  —  the  flag  that 
all   love  —  in  order  to  supply  cheap  Melanesian 
labour  to  British  capitalists  in  a  British  colony. 
The  people  who  do  them  are  making  that  flag 
hated  throughout  the  South  Pacific.    Where 
it  appears,  men  tly.  and  women  cower.     England 
i-  annot  move  her.     But   I  ask 

i,  men  and  \\<mien  «»f  Australia,  will  you  help 
us  to  rouse  her  heart  and  con  Will  ymi 

help  us  to  put  down  this  loathsome  blot  on  our 
national  honour?    Will  you  say  at  once:  'These 
things  shall  not  be.     The  Labour  traffic  nr 
cease,  or  mu-t  at  the  very  least  be  civilised  and 
Christianised?  ' 

-  a  most  stirring  heart  - 
Kven  capitali-t-  with  "interests"  in  <j 
land  were  moved.     "  It  was  not  a  sermon/*  Mr. 
Strong  said  afterwards,   with  professional  criti- 
i.  "  but  it  was  an  excellent  speech,  and  it  e 

1  its  audience  with   it."      All   Sydney  c: 
round  at    f  <  »f  St.    hide'**   t<>  -hake  ha- 


TOM    PLUNGES.  IO3 

with  the  orator.  Even  Tom  himself  was  dimly 
aware  that  day  that  his  fate  was  now  sealed;  he 
could  never  go  back;  he  had  made  himself  a 
parson. 

When  all  the  others  had  dropped  off,  Olive 
Strong  came  up.  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Glisson," 
she  said.  "  It  was  a  wonderful  description.  As 
you  spoke  of  what  you  had  seen,  we  all  seemed 
to  see  it.  I  knew  you  could  do  this  thing;  and 
you  did  it  splendidly.  I  see  now  quite  clearly 
what  your  work  must  be  in  future.  You  must 
stir  this  matter  up  in  Australia  and  in  England." 

Tom  was  boyishly  delighted  and  pleased  with 
her  praise;  yet  it  made  him  feel  more  of  an  im- 
postor and  a  rogue  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Tin:   i  NT: vi TABLE. 

WHEN,  long  years  mis.  it   first  be 

to  IK-  ]  red  in  England  that  Cecil 

>son  (as  everybody  called  him)  was  not  a  c 

gyman  at  all.  l>ut  in  forged  orders,  the  few  who 
rd   to  accept   that   startling  rumour 
took  it  for  granted  at  once  that  Cecil  Glisson 
li   an   unmitigated   scoundrel.     The  crime  of 
Personating  a  priest  is  one  which  seems  peculiar- 
ly heinous  to  all  who  accept  the  inherent  sanc- 
tity of  the  clerical  cal  lurefore  I  almost 
of  making  you  understand  by  what  grad- 
ual  stages,  and   through  what  persistent    freaks 
of  fate,  Tom  lYin-le  fell  slowly  into  this  life-long 
ion.     On  board  the  Avenger,  he  said  to 
himself,  it  \\as  only  till  he  could  reach  Sydney. 
At   Sydney,  it   was  only  till  he  could  steal  away 
to  Melln>nnK'.     After  that   fatal  Sunday,  it  v 
only  still  till  he  could  escape  from  the  Strongs. 
I  when  once  he  had  fled.  (  )live  Strong  must 
•id  him  with  the  rest  of  this  strange 
104 


THE    INEVITABLE. 


105 


phantasmagoric  episode  in  the  life  of  an  adven- 
turous Canadian  sailor. 

That  he  was  a  Canadian,  too,  must  be  allowed 
to  count  for  a  little  in  whatever  exculpation  an 
apologist  may  find  possible  for  Tom  Pringle's 
conduct.  Not  that  I  am  myself  concerned  to 
defend  or  to  condemn  him;  the  historian's  task 
is  but  to  state  facts  as  they  occur,  leaving  judg- 
ment of  good  and  evil  to  his  readers.  Still,  it 
must  be  admitted  in  fairness  that  in  European 
lands  the  sense  of  some  inherent  sanctity  in  holy 
orders  is  stronger  by  far  than  in  Protestant 
America,  where  the  man  who  feels  an  inner  call 
to  preach  goes  forth  and  preaches,  with  or  with- 
out credentials.  And  when  Tom  Pringle  grew 
suddenly  conscious  that  morning  at  Sydney  that 
he  had  a  message  to  give  to  the  people  of  Aus- 
tralia, and  that  the  people  would  listen  to  it,  he 
felt  himself  in  some  ways  more  or  less  justified 
in  the  role  of  deception  which  chance  and  cir- 
cumstance had  forced  upon  him. 

He  lay  awake  that  night  none  the  less,  how- 
ever, and  reflected  very  seriously  on  his  present  - 
position.  What  was  he  going  to  do  next?  For 
as  yet  his  thoughts  were  all  concentrated  on  the 
project  of  getting  free  from  this  awkward  fix; 
he  had  no  idea  so  far  of  embarking  in  a  deliberate 
and  life-long  deception.  He  still  wanted  to  steal 


Til!  I  OP. 

away    to    M  !ie  or  elsewhere;  and    he    : 

still  no  design  of  any  other  permanent   path  in 

lan  that  of  a  casual  British  sailor. 
One  tiling  alone  stood  a  little  in  the  way;  he 
ild  be  sorry  to  say  good-bye  for  ever  to  Olive. 
For  Oli  a  revelation,  an  ideal,  an  cp 

•    since  he  was  a  boy  in  Canada  had  it  hap- 
>  him  before  to  speak  on  equal  terms  with 
an  English  lady.     Gently  born  and  1>:  had 

tiling  away  his  ancestral  birthright  of  gentility 
—the  only  birthright  he  had  ever  possessed — 
for  a  boy's  love  of  the  sea.  a  love  that  rarely  lasts 
much  beyond  h\  e-and-t  wenty.  And  now  that  he 
had  spent  ten  days  in  a  house  with  Olive  Strong, 
he  saw  his  mi-take;  he  began  to  regret  his  altered 
position  in  society. 

Rc<  Vankly  in  that  cultivated  home  as 

an  e<|ual.  it  suddenly  came  back  to  him  that  he 
could  still  be  a  gentleman.  He  had  had  a  good 
many  hours  alone — when  Oli\e  was  out — and 
those  hours  he  had  spent  for  the  most  part  in 
the  library.  They  suggested  to  him  the  idea  that 
after  all  he  did  really  like  books;  that  he  v 
good  for  something  better,  something  higher  in 
the  \\orld.  than  reeling  sails  and  lowering  jolly- 
its.  But  Olive  herself,  after  all,  was  the 
irgument.  He  that  if  he 

left   Sydney  he  would  leave  a  great   part   of  him- 


THE    INEVITABLE. 


lO/ 


self  behind  there.  As  he  lay  in  bed  and  thought 
over  that  distracting  day — that  day  of  unex- 
pected and  glorious  triumph — that  day  of  shame- 
ful and  incredible  deceit — he  was  most  of  all 
conscious  that  he  did  not  now  wish  to  be  a 
sailor  any  more,  because  he  was  in  love  with 
Olive. 

And  Olive  had  said  one  thing,  too,  that 
touched  him  to  the  core.  She  talked  it  all  over 
with  him  in  the  drawing-room  that  evening;  and 
she  exclaimed  more  than  once:  "  That  sailor 
who  took  you  from  the  canoes  and  nursed  you 
on  the  John  Wesley  must  have  been  a  good  fel- 
low too.  How  sad  that  he  should  have  been 
blown  up  in  the  explosion  afterwards!  It  seems 
to  me  he  must  have  been  really  brave  to  venture 
upon  having  his  own  way  at  such  a  time  against 
that  horrid  captain." 

And  Tom  could  only  look  down  and  say: 
"  Oh,  yes,  he  was  a  good  fellow  enough;  "  which 
under  the  circumstances  seemed  painfully  luke- 
warm. This  odd  conflict  of  real  modesty  with 
the  curious  fear  of  seeming  to  underrate  the  man 
who,  according  to  the  official  story,  had  saved 
his  life,  was  difficult  to  carry  off  with  a  becom- 
ing demeanour.  Before  he  quite  knew  what 
was  happening  he  found  himself  engaged  in  a 
glowing  eulogy  of  his  own  tenderness  as  a 


io8  'nil  !or. 

e  and  a  touching  tribute  to  his  own 
memory. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  he  half 
laughed  to  himself  at  the  absurdity  of  the  situa- 
tion. It  would  have  been  immensely  comic,  if 

rre  not  so  embarrassing.  But  he  felt  none 
the  less  that  the  affair  was  growing  a  trifle  too 
complicated.  Sooner  or  later,  he  must  go.  And 
the  sooner  the  better. 

led  with  this  idea,  he  rose  early  next  morn- 
ing, determined,  like  a  foolish  young  sailor  that 
as,  on  a  somewhat  precipitate  line  of  action. 
It  was  no  use  loitering.  He  must  break 
at  once.  He  must  get  rid  for  ever  of  these  lyinir 
black  clothes;  he  must  return  to  the  sea  and  be 
an  honest  sailor. 

Determined  to  act,  he  dressed  himself  in 
Cecil  Glisson's  red  cross  >hirt.  and  descended  to 
the  drawing-room.  A  fever  of  penitence 
on  him — the  first  of  many  from  which  he  suffered 
during  a  life  of  alternate  emotions,  all  fiercely 
suppressed  under  a  calm  exterior.  He  had  l>e- 

d  abominably;  he  could  feel  that  no\\ 
he  had  taken  the  only  possible  alternative  that  he 
could  see  to  being  unjustly  hanged  for  partici- 
pation in  acts  which  horrified  and  revolted  him. 
Nay,  would  it  not  even  have  been  wron^  in  him 
to  let  such  a  tr  e  take  its  c 


THE   INEVITABLE.  IOg 

without  an  effort  to  prevent  it?  And  how  else 
could  he  prevent  it  save  in  the  way  he  had 
chosen? 

Yet  he  was  really  penitent.  Above  all,  for 
his  attitude  towards  that  innocent  Olive.  He 
had  unwillingly  and  almost  unwittingly  deceived 
her;  but  he  had  deceived  her  for  all  that;  and  he 
respected  her  so  much  that  the  sense  of  having 
deceived  her  was  odious  and  unendurable  to  his 
candid  nature. 

So  now  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  steal 
away  without  even  saying  good-bye  to  her;  to 
embark  on  a  ship  for  some  distant  port;  and  then 
to  write  in  general  and  non-committing  terms 
about  the  gross  deception  he  had  practised  upon 
her. 

If  so,  how  could  he  sign  it?  Cecil  Glisson? 
To  do  that  would  be  to  put  a  hateful  slight  upon 
the  memory  of  the  man  whom  he  had  nursed 
and  admired  and  wronged  and  personated.  Tom 
Pringle?  To  do  that  would  be  to  play  once  more 
into  the  hands  of  injustice  and  secure  his  own 
hanging;  for  Tom  knew  that  in  these  days  the 
police  of  the  world,  like  a  banded  brotherhood, 
can  track  a  suspected  criminal  from  Sydney  to 
San  Francisco  and  from  Temuka  to  Constanti- 
nople, Rio,  or  Petersburg.  This,  however,  was 
a  remoter  difficulty,  which  he  was  not  now  called 


IIO  THE   INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

upon  for  the  moment  to  solve;  though  it  oc- 
curred to  him  even  then  that  if  he  fled  away 
suddenly,  he  might  suggest  the  notion  that  he 
not  Cecil  Glisson;  and  if  that  notion  were 
once  suggested,  and  enquiry  aroused,  it  would  i 
go  hard  under  the  circumstances  if  they  did  not 
hang  him.  For  if.  when  he  first  landed,  he  had 
proclaimed  himself  as  Tom  Pringle,  and  told  the 
whole  truth,  it  was  just  conceivable,  though 
scar  obable,  that  people  might  have  be- 

lieved him;  but  now  that  he  had  played  the  p 
of  the  missionary  'successfully  for  ten  days  to- 
gether, and  even  preached  with  unction  an  af- 
fecting sermon,  all  the  world  would  conclude  he 
one  of  the  pirate  gang,  unless  he  was  Glis- 
son; and  hanged  he  would  be  more  certainly 
than  ever. 

Yet  he  was  prepared  to  risk  that  last   i 
ril>le  chance  itself  rather  than  continue  any  longer 
his  gross  deception  of  the  girl  he  was  beginning 
to  confess  himself  in  love  with. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  he  had  crept  down 
furtively  into  the  dining-room.  lie  was  on  the 
prowl  after  food,  for  even  in  such  desperate 
straits,  a  man  must  feed;  and  he  had  just  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  a  loaf  of  bread  in  the  sideboard, 
when  steps  on  the  stairs  aroused  him.  He  pan 
and  listened.  It  was  a  woman's  tread,  lie  lis- 


THE    INEVITABLE.  Iir 

tened  again  and  felt  sure  it  was  Olive  descend- 
ing. Now,  Tom  was  quite  prepared  to  face  mere 
hanging,  but  he  was  not  prepared  to  face  such  a 
ridiculous  position  as  being  caught  by  that  angel 
in  the  act  of  stealing  a  loaf  of  bread  from  her  side- 
board. He  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  and,  finding 
no  other  way  open,  retired  on  to  the  verandah. 
Then,  terrified  lest  Olive  should  look  out  and 
see  him,  he  crouched  for  a  while  behind  a  long 
wicker  chair,  and  waited  to  fly  till  Olive  should 
disappear  again. 

He  heard  her  open  the  dining-room  door  and 
peer  in.  He  heard  her  approach  the  window.  He 
had  left  it  unfastened,  of  course.  She  looked 
out,  glanced  around,  and  surveyed  the  garden. 
At  the  same  moment,  he  heard  the  study  door 
open.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Strong  used  to  rise 
very  early  to  write  his  sermons,  but  he  had  hardly 
expected  him  quite  as  early  as  this.  A  voice 
called  out:  "  Olive!" 

"  Yes,  Papa." 

"  What  are  you  doing,  up  at  this  hour?  " 

Mr.  Strong  had  come  into  the  dining-room 
by  this  time,  and  Olive  had  left  the  window  open. 
Tom,  crouched  behind  his  wicker  chair,  could 
hear  every  word  they  spoke  as  easily  as  if  he 
had  been  in  the  room  with  them.  Olive's  tone 
had  something  of  hesitation  in  it  as  she  answered 


112  TI1K    IN 

uneasily:  "  I  thought  I  heard  Mr.  (ilisson  come 
down,  and  I  was  afraid  he  might  be  ill  or  in  want 
of  something;  so  I  slipped  on  my  dress  and  ju^t 
ran  down  to  ask  him." 

"Olive,  you  are  thinking  too  much  of  this 
Mr.  Glisson." 

"  Am  I,  Papa?  "  He  could  feel  her  heart  beat- 
ing in  the  voice  with  which  she  said  it. 

Yes,  my  child,  you  are.  I  have  seen  it  for 
some  days.  I  have  watched  till  I  was  sure.  And 
I'm  doubly  sorry  for  it.  In  the  first  place,  he 
means  nothing;  he's  too  full  of  his  work,  and  too 
eager  to  get  back  again,  to  think  of  anything  else. 
And  in  the  second  place,  you  know  very  well, 
you  don't  want  to  go  to  Temuka." 

Olive  paused  a  second.  Then  she  answered 
slowly.  "  That's  quite  true  in  one  way;  I  don't 
want  to  go  to  Temuka.  But  I  could  go  any- 
where, Papa,  with — a  man  that  loved  me." 

Mr.  Strong  drew  an  audible  breath.  "  It's  as 
bad  as  that,  then,  is  it?"  he  asked.  "You've 
been  thinking  it  over,  and  you'd  be  prepared  to 
go,  even  to  Temuka?  " 

"How  do  I  know,  Papa?"  Olive  ansu- 
demurely.     "Nobody  has  asked  me  yet.      If    I 
were  asked — by  somebody — I  would  take  time, 
I  suppose,  to  consider  my  ans\ 

She  said  it  as  lightly  as  she  could;  but  T 


THE    INEVITABLE.  T  !  3 

was  aware  where  he  lurked  that  she  said  it  with 
a  restrained  air  which  meant  a  great  deal.  She 
was  trying  to  laugh  it  off  because  it  meant  so 
much  to  her. 

"  Olive,  you're  in  love  with  this  young  man." 

She  dropped  her  voice. 

"  I — I  suppose  so." 

"  And  he  has  nothing  to  marry  upon." 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  He  has  courage,  and 
cleverness,  and  a  great  deal  beside.  Everyone 
said  on  Sunday  they  never  heard  such  a  sermon." 

"  Ah,  that  was  because  he  was  describing  what 
he  had  seen  and  gone  through.  He  forgot  him- 
self wholly  in  his  dramatic  story.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  could  preach  at  all  on  any  ordinary 
subject." 

"  I  don't  know  either.  He  can  do  better 
than  that.  He  can  make  one  listen  when  he 
talks  about  what  he  knows.  And  as  to  going 
to  Temuka,  why  should  he  ever  go  back  again? 
He  has  better  work  to  do  here,  a  thousand  times 
better,  and  you  ought  to  tell  him  so.  He  would 
be  of  infinitely  more  use  in  New  South  Wales 
than  thrown  away  on  a  Melanesian  island." 

"  Olive,  take  care!  you  overrate  his  abilities." 

"  No  I  don't,  Papa.  He's  far  cleverer  than 
he  knows;  only,  he's  much  too  modest.  He 
could  do  anything  that  he  tried.  I  can  hear  by 


II4  THE    IN  vl     BISHOP. 

all  he  tells  us  1  remely  clever  he  is,  if  only 

he  had  some  one  to  spur  him  on,  and  if  he  lr 
where  he  could  make  any  use  of  his  cleverness." 

44  I  ought  never  to  have  asked  him  here/'  Mr. 
Strong  broke  out.  4t  I  might  have  foreseen,  of 
course,  that  this  would  happen.  But  as  local 
secretary  of  the  Society,  I  thought  I  must  ask 
him;  and  he's  a  nice  young  fellow  too,  and  I 
confess,  I  took  a  fancy  to  him. " 

44  So  did   I."  Olive  answered  simply. 

Her  father  laughed.  Poor  Tom,  behind  the 
chair,  felt  guiltier  than  ever.  His  face  was  fiery 
red;  he  could  feel  it  burning.  He  hardly  knew 
what  to  do.  Oh,  suppose  they  were  only  to  find 
him  hiding  the; 

"Well,  where  is  he?"  the  father  asked. 

44  I  don't  know,"  Olive  answered.  44  He  must 
have  come  down,  because  his  bedroom  door's 
open;  and  besides,  he  has  unfastened  this  win- 
dow; you  shut  it  yourself  last  night,  you  know, 
and  none  of  the  servants  are  down  yet.  I'm 
afraid  he's  ill,  or  else  he's  gone  out  in  the  garden ." 

The  father  went  off  to  search  the  grounds  for 
the  truant.  Olive  turned  into  the  drawing-room. 
The  moment  she  was  gone,  Tom  felt  it  was  now 
or  never.  He  must  bolt  for  the  front  gate  and 
be  done  for  ever  with  this  impossible  situation. 
avpt  noiselessly  to  the  steps,  and  made  a 


THE   INEVITABLE.  H5 

dart  for  the  gate.  As  he  did  so,  Olive  stepped 
out  once  more  on  to  the  verandah.  Tom  stood 
facing  her  for  a  second,  in  his  red  cross  shirt,  with 
his  face  somewhat  redder.  Then,  overcome  by 
shame,  he  sank  into  the  long  wicker  chair,  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands,  and  half  laughed, 
half  cried,  half  groaned,  half  sobbed  in  his  per- 
plexity and  confusion. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

TA    NUOVA. 

OLIVE'S  face,  too,  was  crimson,  for  she  dimly 
felt  the  young  man  had  heard  all.  She  looked 
down  at  him  with  her  steady  eyes,  now  troubled 
for  a  second.  "  Where  were  you  going,  Mr. 
Glisson?"  she  asked  very  tremulously. 

Tom  told  the  truth  for  once,  and  shamed  the 
il.    "  I — I  was  going  away,  Miss  Strong/'  he 
\vered  slowly.     "  Stealing  away,  unper 
like  a  thief  in  the  night.     I  ought  never  to  have 
come.     And  I  was  trying  to  undo  the  first  false 
step— by  taking  a  second/' 

He  could  face  her  like  a  man.  now,  for  he 
-  no  longer  dressed   up   in    those  ridiculous 
canonicals. 

Olive  gazed  at  him.  irresolute.    Her  face 
flushed;  her  cheeks  were  burning.     "  I  don't  un- 
derstand  y«»u."   she   cried,   grasping  a   chair   for 
•><>rt,  and  feeling  the  world  reel  round  her. 
"  You — were  going  to  leave  us?  " 

Tom  leant  over  her.  in  an  agony,  torn  asunder 

116 


VITA   NUOVA.  llj 

between  despair  and  love.  "  I  was  going  to  leave 
you/'  he  repeated  resolutely.  "  It  was  the  only 
way  out.  I  have  put  myself  in  a  false  position: 
I  was  trying  to  escape  from  it.  I  did  wrong  to 
come  at  all.  And — your  father  does  not  want 
me." 

"  You  heard  us?  "  Olive  gasped,  with  a  wild 
flush  of  shame. 

Tom  put  the  devil  to  the  blush  again.  "  Yes, 
unintentionally,  unwillingly,  I  heard  you.  1  was 
trying  to  slink  away  from  the  house  unperceived, 
when  you  came  down  hurriedly.  I  stepped  out 
here  on  the  verandah,  and  did  my  best  to  hide. 
I  could  not  foresee  what  was  going  to  happen. 
Then  your  father  called;  and — Miss  Strong,  Miss 
Strong — forgive  me,  believe  me — I  really  couldn't 
help  it." 

Olive  stood  glued  to  the  spot.  Her  face  was 
on  fire  now.  Her  heart  stood  still.  Her  breath 
came  and  went  with  difficulty.  She  could  only 
repeat1  in  a  dazed  and  terrified  undertone:  "  You 
heard  us!  You  heard  us!  " 

Tom  seized  her  hand  in  his.  There  was  noth- 
ing else  left  to  do.  "  Yes,  Miss  Strong,"  he 
cried;  "  Olive — I  have  surprised  your  secret. 
But  you  have  surprised  mine  too.  What  you 
feel,  /  feel.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you.  I  knew 
I  had  no  right.  I  had  thought  every  word  of 


11$  THE    INCH'!  OP. 

what  your  father  said,  before  he  said  it.  It  would 
be  wrong  of  me  to  ask  such  a  woman  as  you  to 
link  your  life  with  mine.  1  knew  it :  I  recognised 
it.  And  yet.  .  .  .  every  day  that  I  spent  in  this 
house,  I  admired  and  longed  for  you  more  each 
minute."  He  leaned  eagerly  forward.  "  I  loved 
you,  Olive.  And  because  I  l«>\ed  you,  and  tore 
I  knew  I  could  never  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  I 
ing  to  steal  away — when  you  came  down 
and  prevented  me.  What  else  could  I  do 
your  own  heart  that.  If  I  stayed,  I  must  fall 
deeper  and  deeper  in  love  with  you.  And  I  knew 
from  the  very  first  my  love  was  quite  hope- 
les 

Olive  looked  up  at  him  through  the  tears  that 
began  to  fill  her  eyes.  "  /f"//y.  Mr.  Glisson?  "  she 
asked  slowly. 

The  delicious  simplicity  and  unexpectedness 
of  that  answer  took  Tom's  breath  away  with  a 
tremor  of  delight  and  happiness.  So  Ol 
wanted  him!  His  voice  had  the  clear  ring  of 
truth  in  it:  and  (  )li\e  had  recognised  it  at  once. 
She  saw  this  man  loved  her;  and  if  he  lovrd 
what  else  could  matter?  She  knew  that  in 
the-e  matters  there  is  no  such  word  as  impos- 
sible. And  when  she  asked  "  Why,  Mr.  Glis- 
son?" Tom's  heart  i;ave  one  wild  bound.  It 
would  have  bounded  harder  if  she  had  said  "  \Vhy, 


VITA   NUOVA.  ng 

Mr.  Pringle?  "  The  sense  of  that  continued  de- 
ception alone  prevented  him  from  rising  to  the 
seventh  heavens. 

He  grasped  her  hand  tighter.  "  Because — " 
he  answered,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said,  and 
casting  about  him  for  some  adequate  reason,  "  I 
am  quite  a  poor  man,  with  nothing  to  depend 
upon  but  my  very  small  salary."  (What  was 
Glisson's  salary,  he  wondered,  and  who  the 
dickens  paid  it?)  "  Because — I  could  never 
dream  of  taking  you  to  Temuka.  Because — your 
father  would  not  give  his  consent.  Because — 
it  would  be  mean  to  repay  his  hospitality  so  ill. 
Because — it  would  be  wrong  of  me  to  tie  a  life 
like  yours  to  my  own  poor  fortunes." 

"  And — you  were  really  going  to  leave  me?  " 
Olive  repeated,  clinging  to  his  hand  with  a 
sense  of  terror  as  if  she  thought  he  would  with- 
draw it — which,  to  do  Tom  justice,  was  far  at 
that  moment  from  his  intention.  i  To  leave 
me  without  one  word,  without  a  good-bye, 
even!" 

Tom  had  an  irresistible  impulse.  Parson  or 
no  parson,  impostor  or  honest  man,  he  was  only 
aware  at  that  instant  that  a  woman  who  loved 
him  was  clinging  to  his  hand;  and  with  a  great 
flood  of  feeling,  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her. 
He  did  it  with  reverence,  with  reluctance  almost; 


120  THE    INCIM  i-ISHOP. 

he  was  profoundly  aware  as  his  lips  touched  hers 
how  unworthy  he  was  of  that  pure,  calm  woman. 

en  if  he  had  not  been  playing  a  part,  a  mean, 
deceptive  part,  he  would  have  felt  it  more  than 
a  little;  for  Tom  had  that  kind  of  chivalry  which 
recognises  at  once  its  own  infinite  inferiority  to 
a  good  woman's  heart.  But  as  things  stood,  he 
hated  himself  for  the  desecration  he  was  com- 
mitting To  be  perfectly  frank,  Tom,  who  v 
no  ecclesiast,  felt  much  more  acutely  the  desecra- 
tion of  which  he  was  guilty  by  that  kiss  to  Olive 
than  he  had  felt  the  desecration  of  mounting  the 
pulpit  steps  as  an  ordained  priot  on  Sunday 
morning.  The  one  was  a  thing  that  he  could 
fully  understand;  it  came  within  his  purview:  the 
other  belonged  to  a  special  range  of  thought,  as 
yet  unfamiliar  to  him.  He  had  still  to  learn  it, 
kcloth  and  ashes. 

Still,  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  And 
unworthy  as  he  knew  himself  to  touch  those 
pure  lips,  he  was  yet  aware  as  he  did  so  of  a 

inrush  of  feeling,  a  sort  of  ineffaM 
from  heaven.     He  lingered  on  them  for  a  sec- 
ond.   As  for  Olive,  she  took  the  kiss  with  a  sense 
as  of  her  right.     She  loved  him;  he  loved  her; 
that  was  all  she  thought  about. 

Her  hand  tightened  on  his.  The  blush  died 
away  from  her  face.  If  he  felt  like  that,  she  had 


VITA   NUOVA.  121 

no  cause  to  be  ashamed.  Their  secret  was  mu- 
tual. She  looked  up  into  his  face  and  murmured 
gently:  "  Then,  you  love  me — Cecil?  " 

"  Cecil!  "  That  "  Cecil  "  brought  Tom  back 
with  a  horrid  thud  to  solid  earth  again.  The 
seventh  heavens  melted  away.  A  pang  darted 
through  his  heart.  More  than  ever  before,  he 
knew  the  die  was  cast  now.  There  was  no  going 
back  from  this.  He  had  sealed  his  fate,  and  bound 
himself  in  honour  for  life  to  Olive. 

Yet,  what  a  horrible  outlook!  Must  he  go 
on  for  years  with  this  odious  deception?  Must 
he  begin  love's  dream  under  false  pretences? 
Must  he  marry  the  woman  he  loved  under  an- 
other man's  name?  Must  he  shuffle  off  himself 
and  pass  his  life  henceforth  with  somebody  else's 
personality.  The  thought  was  hateful  to  him. 
Had  he  had  time  to  reflect,  he  would  probably 
have  decided  that  such  a  course  was  too  danger- 
ous. Apart  even  from  its  wickedness,  he  would 
have  doubted  his  own  ability  to  sustain  for  long 
years  so  difficult  a  deception.  But  it  was  Tom 
Pringle's  misfortune  that  he  had  never  time  to 
reflect,  to  deliberate,  to  resolve,  at  any  one  of 
these  great  crises.  Events  forced  him  to  act  at 
once;  and,  acting  at  once  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  without  any  fixed  intention  of  embark- 
ing on  a  career  of  crime,  he  yet  found  himself  led 


TH1  U.    BISHOP. 

step  by  step,  half  against  his  will,  into  abysses  un- 
fathomable. 

So  now,  a  man's  virile  instinct  compelled  him 
to  refrain  from  serious  thought,  and  to  lean 
down  and  murmur:  "\Yhy,  Olive.  I  loved  you 
from  the  moment  I  first  saw  you,  here  on  the 

mdah." 

Her  fingers  tightened  on  his  hand  again,  and 
she  gave  a  little  satisfied  gasp.  If  he  really  loved 
her — if  she  had  not  forced  him  into  an  unwilling 
avowal — she  cared  for  nothing  else.  He  might 
see  into  her  heart — if  only  his  was  hers  already. 

"  And  yet/'  she  whispered,  half  chiding,  "  \ 

e  going  to  run  away  from  me! " 

He  gave  a  despairing  gesture.  "  Olive,  what 
else  could  I  do?  What  else  can  I  do  now?  I 

e  no  right  to  make  love  to  you.  What  will 
your  father  say?  He  will  think  I  have  taken  a 
dishonourable  advantage  of  his  hospitable  kind- 
ness. He  will  say  I  should  never  have  ventured 
to  dream  of  you." 

Olive  looked  deep  into  his  eyes  again.         I 
wouldn't   mind  ///(//."  she  answered.     "  This  is  a 
question  for  me.     I  love  Papa  dearly — he  is  the 
kindest  and  best  of  fathers.     But  a  girl's  he 
is  her  own.    Her  own,  not  her  father's." 

"  To  you  and  me,  yes.  But  fathers  do  not 
think  so." 


VITA    NUOVA. 


123 


"  He  will  think  so  soon.  Cecil,  I  have  no 
fear  for  you.  I  know  you  are  cleverer  and  greater 
than  you  think.  That  is  one  of  the  very  things 
that  makes  me  love  you.  I  see  you  are  so  mod- 
est about  your  own  abilities.  But — where  did 
you  mean  to  go?  What  were  you  going  to  do 
with  yourself?  If  you  ran  away  from  Papa  like 
that,  you  could  never  have  gone  back  as  a  mis- 
sionary to  Temuka." 

"  Olive,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  I  was  going 
back — to  be  a  common  sailor." 

With  a  mighty  effort  he  had  braced  himself 
up  for  it.  He  meant  to  confess  all.  And  if  only 
Olive  had  understood  his  meaning,  he  would 
really  have  confessed  it.  But  the  same  moral 
ill  luck  pursued  him  throughout.  Olive  did  not 
notice  the  ambiguous  phrase  "  going  back."  She 
fastened  only  on  the  last  words  of  his  sentence. 
'  To  be  a  common  sailor!  "  she  cried.  "  How 
do  you  mean?  You  would  have  given  up  the 
church,  and  gone  to  sea  for  always?  " 

The  horror  in  her  voice  at  the  bare  idea 
checked  him.  He  answered  evasively,  with  a 
hang-dog  air:  "What  else  was  open  to  me?  I 
couldn't  have  returned  to  Temuka,  if  I  slank 
away  like  a  thief  from  your  father's  house;  and 
I  couldn't  tell  your  father  I  meant  to  leave  be- 
cause I  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  daughter  and 
9 

r         "OF  TRK 

UNIVERSITY 


Til!  !OP. 

kn<  tterly  unworthy  to  ask  her."     The 

psychological  moment  had  passed,  and  he  had 
taken  advantage  of  it. 

And  for  my  sake,  you  would  have  given  up 
everything,  and  begun  life  over  again 

Tom  reflected  to  himself  that  he  had  not 
much  to  give  up— a  common  sailor's  off-chance: 
and  this  false  ascription  of  heroism  was  hateful 
to  his  real  nature.  But  what  could  he  say?  He 
had  not  strength  of  mind  to  confess  the  whole 
truth  when  it  came  to  the  push — especially  as  to 
confess  would  be  to  make  Olive  hate  him.  He 
could  only  murmur:  "  I  could  begin  life  over 
again  easily  enough,  for  I  should  only  be  giv- 
ing up  a  savage  hut  in  a  wild  island.  And  a 
sailor's  place  can  hardly  be  much  worse  than  a 
missionary's  in  Melanesia." 

"  But  I  mean  you  to  be  something  much  more 
than  that."  Olive  cried,  with  a  girl's  confidence 
in  her  chosen  lover,  her  eyes  growing  prouder. 
I  mean  you  to  do  work  that  all  the  world  will 
praise  and  admire.  You  are  mine  now,  and  it  is 
my  place  to  inspire  you.  /  know  what  you 

rth.  an  >  not.     For  that.   I  love  \ 

But  I  am  going  to  re  that  you  realise  your 

own  value.     Y«m  shall  never  be  thrown  away  on 
a  Pacific  Island." 

Tom    looked    at    her    admiringly.      With    a 


VITA   NUOVA.  125 

woman  like  this  to  spur  one  on  to  great  things, 
a  man  might  surely  rise  to  be  anything.  He  had 
no  exalted  opinion  of  his  own  abilities — indeed, 
Olive  was  right;  he  was  much  too  modest:  but 
he  knew  he  had  a  good  memory  and  a  taste  for 
languages;  and  as  to  intelligence,  why,  hang  it 
all- 
Mem.,  that  if  he  was  really  going  to  be  a  par- 
son henceforth,  he  must  dismiss  for  the  future 
this  tell-tale  sailor  habit  of  saying  "  hang  it  all/' 
or  worse,  at  every  turn  of  the  conversation. 

Well,  hang  it  all,  then,  or  don't  hang  it;  he 
had  surprised  himself  the  other  day  by  the  ease 
with  which  he  read  Cecil  Glisson's  Greek  Testa- 
ment. Perhaps  he  had  more  brains  than  he  had 
ever  suspected. 

He  gazed  back  at  Olive  with  unaffected  de- 
light. "  Do  you  really  think/'  he  said,  "  I  might 
be  good  for  something — in  Australia,  for  in- 
stance? " 

Olive  gazed  back  at  him  with  a  girl's  proud 
trust  in  the  man  who  has  won  her.  "  I  think," 
she  answered  with  the  ring  of  conviction,  "  you 
could  do  anything  you  liked.  And  now  you  are 
mine,  I  mean  to  make  you  do  it." 

Even  as  she  said  it,  a  voice  came  from  behind 
the  big  wattle-bush  on  the  edge  of  the  lawn. 
"  I've  searched  for  him  everywhere,  Olive,  and 


126  THI-:  IM  IDKNTAI.  BISHOP. 

I  can't  find  him,  up  or  down.     He's  not  in  the 

CO,   I'm  certain." 

"No,  Papa,"  Oli\  cred,  growing  sud- 

denly hot  again.     **  He's  here  on  the  veranc 
— and  I  am  with  him." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CROSSING   THE    RUBICON. 

THERE  was  something  in  her  tone  which  told 
her  father  that  much  had  happened  while  he 
went  round  the  garden.  He  moved  up  the  steps 
hurriedly.  Olive  had  dropped  Tom's  hand,  and 
stood  opposite  him  now  with  a  sweet  new  ex- 
pression lighting  up  her  face;  her  eyes  were 
downcast,  but  she  did  not  attempt  otherwise  to 
conceal  her  feelings.  Tom  had  a  guilty  look  upon 
his  countenance,  but  was  nevertheless  as  miti- 
gatedly  happy  as  a  man  can  be  who  has  won  a 
good  girl's  love  by  a  regrettable  subterfuge.  The 
father  took  it  all  in  at  once.  To  say  the  truth, 
it  needed  no  Columbus  to  make  that  discovery. 
"  Well,"  he  murmured  slowly.  "  You  have  found 
him?  " 

"  Yes,"  Olive  answered  with  meaning,  lifting 
her  calm  eyes  to  his  face.  "  We  have  found  one 
another." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Mr.  Strong 
remarked  curtly:  "So  I  see."  Nobody  said 
127 


128 

much  else.     .But   all   three   understood  one  an- 
other. 

Olive  stood  for  a  minute,  undecided.    Aft 

y  short  pause,  she  took  Tom's  hand  in  hers. 
"  Good-bye  for  the  present/'  she  said,  letting  it 
drop.  And  she  glided  upstairs  again. 

Tom  was  left,  flushed  and  trembling,  face  to 
face  with  the  hostile  element  of  a  father. 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Mr.  Strong  waited 
for  Tom  to  begin.  Tom  waited  for  Mr.  Strong. 
Neither  felt  quite  easy.  At  last,  a  faint  smile 
played  round  the  clergyman's  lips.  He  knew 
Olive  well,  and  he  knew  therefore  that  if  Olive 
had  made  up  her  mind,  a  father  was,  after  all, 
a  mere  spectator,  called  in  at  the  last  moment  to 
latify  her  decisions.  "Well?"  he  observed  once 
more,  interrogatively. 

Tom  sank  into  a  chair,  a  picture  of  perplexity. 
What  do  you  propose  to  do  next?"  the 
elder  man  asked  with  emphasis. 

Thus  driven  to  bay,  Tom  rushed  into  it  at 
once.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  11 
just  what  puzzles  me.  It  has  all  come  upon  me 
so  suddenly.  I  didn't  guess  it  myself  at  all  till 
n.  >w.  That  is  to  say,"  he  corrected,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  confess  it.  But — but  circumstances  were 
too  strong  for  me.  An  Occasion  arose  three 
minutes  since — and  the  Occasion  was  inevitable. 


CROSSING   THE   RUBICON. 


I29 


It  wasn't  really  my  fault.  Set  it  down  to  coin- 
cidence/' 

He  stammered  and  stumbled.  Mr.  Strong 
more  than  half  understood  the  situation — so  far 
as  Olive  was  concerned,  at  least;  for  he  knew 
already  she  was  in  love  with  the  new  comer. 
"  And  you  have  arrived  at  an  understanding?  " 
he  put  in  tentatively  at  last. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no!"  Tom  exclaimed.  "I 
would  not  venture  to  presume.  We — we 
just  read  one  another's  eyes,  that's  all — little 
more.  An  understanding — far  from  it.  But,— 
in  a  way,  I  think  Miss  Strong — well,  no,  not 
that:  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it.  Nothing  at 
all  has  passed;  still,  perhaps,  she  infers  from 
what  I  said  to  her  just  now  that  I — admire  her 
greatly." 

"  I  see,"  the  father  answered  with  chilly  re- 
serve. 

Tom  threw  himself  at  once  on  the  elder  man's 
mercy.  "  But  I  didn't  mean  to  speak,"  he  cried. 
"  I  assure  you  I  didn't  mean  it.  You  must  really 
forgive  me.  I  know  how  unjustifiable  it  was; 
how  wrong;  how  foolish.  I  have  nothing  to  offer 
her;  absolutely  nothing:  and  I  would  not  have 
dared  to  offer  it — did  not  offer  it  in  fact — only 
— well,  I  think  I  had  better  explain  exactly.  I 
felt  I  was  falling  in  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  wrong 


130 


PAL    BISHOP. 


of  me,  and  I  didn't  want  to  repay  your  ho 
tality  so  ill;  so — I  got  up  this  morning  meaning 
to  slink  away  from  Sydney,  and  then  to  write  to 
i  explaining  my  reasons;  because  I  was  too 
nervous  to  say  to  your  face  that — "  He  broke 
n  utterly.  *'  Oh,  Mr.  Strong,"  he  cried,  trem- 
bling, and  leaning  eagerly  forward,  with  his  brown 
hands  clasped,  "  you  must  make  some  allowances 
for  me.  I  am  a  rough  man  from  the  sea,  and  I'm 
not  used  now  to  t  i  oi  civilisation.  And 

a  lady  is  strange  to  me — so  strange,  so  no 
so  wonderful,  so  to  be  worshipped.  The  mere 
touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  me.  It  wa-n't  my 
fault  if  I  fell  in  love  at  sight;  and  having  fallen 
in  love,  what  could  I  do  as  a  man  of  honour  but 
run  away  at  once  when  I  knew  it  was  impos- 

You  are  not  quite  articulate,"   the   father 
smiling  grimly. 

•    1   know  it,"  Tom  answered.  :n  quite 

inarticulate.     I  am  no  great  speaker.    And  that 
-  one  reason  why  I  felt  it  was  absurd,  impos- 
sible for  me  to  dream  of  her.     I  would  not  h. 
amt  of  her.    I  refrained  from  dreaming  of  1 
I  tried  to  leave  her.     But  if  I  find  she  dreams  of 
of  me — Mr.   Strong,   I   am  a  man;  and   we 
most  of  us  human!  " 

"Do   1    understand/1   the   father  asked,  half 


CROSSING  THE    RUBICON.  ^ 

annoyed,  half  amused,  at  his  evident  earnestness, 
"  that  you  really  contemplated  running  away 
from  this  house  without  so  much  as  even  saying 
good-bye  to  us?  " 

Tom  gave  a  gesture  of  deprecation.  "  I  was 
driven  to  it,"  he  answered. 

"  And  do  you  think  that  is  conduct  of  a  sort 
to  encourage  a  father  in  entrusting  you  for  life 
with  his  daughter's  happiness?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Tom  blurted  out  doggedly. 
"  If  you  want  the  plain  truth,  I  think  I  was  a 
fool;  but  I  think  I  was  hard  put  to  it;  and  when 
a  man's  a  fool,  and  is  also  hard  put  to  it, — I  ask 
you  as  a  man,  is  it  kind  to  make  him  feel  his 
position  too  acutely?  " 

Mr,  Strong  sat  down  and  gazed  at  him. 
"  Now,  this  is  serious,"  he  said  slowly.  '*  You 
have  told  me  nothing;  but  you  have  told  me 
enough  to  see  that  it  is  serious.  Am  I  to  under- 
stand that  you  consider  ^ourself  engaged  to  my 
daughter  Olive?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Tom  cried.  "  I 
have  said  hardly  anything  to  her.  It  wasn't  what 
we  said;  it  was — the  way  we  looked  at  one  an- 
other." ' 

"  And  does  Olive  consider  herself  engaged  to 


you?" 


I  can't  tell  you,"  Tom  cried,  growing  more 


Tin  ;op. 

and  more  helpless.    Then  a  happy  thought  struck 
hin.  i  had  better  ask  he- 

Mr.  Strong  gave  hirri  a  respite  of  five  min- 
utes while  he  went  upstairs.  Now  was  a  chance 
for  Tom  to  get  away  if  he  wanted.  Half  an 
hour  ago  he  would  have  seized  it.  The  half 
hour  between  had  completely  altered  the  face  of 
life  for  him.  There  was  no  more  going  back.  He 
realised  now  that  he  was  bound  to  Olive;  which 
implied  that  henceforth  he  was  Cecil  Glisson. 

He  sat  there,  deeply  in  love,  as  happy  as  a 
and  supremely  miserable. 

"  Olive,"  the  father  asked,  when  after  a  short 
delay  she  opened  her  door  to  him,  "  I  want  to 
ask,  is  this  young  man  engaged  to  you?  " 

Olive's  eyes  were  wet  with  happy  tears.  She 
met  her  fatlu T 's  ^aze  fearlessly.  "  I  don't  know 
whether  he's  cngitgcii  to  me."  she  answered:  "  he 

1  nothing  about  engagement;  but  /';;/  engaged 
to  him;  I  am  his,  for  e 

She  said  it  so  simply,  so  strongly,  so  reso- 
lutely, that  her  father,  who  knew  her,  accej> 
her  word  >cable.     "Very  well/'  he  said 

in  a  slow  voice;  "  if  that  is  so,  what  do  you  pro- 
pose he  should  do  for  the  future?  " 

Olive  reflected  a  second.     "  It's  all  so  m 
she  answered;  "  so  fresh;  so  undecided.    It  broke 
upon  us  so  suddenly.      \Ye   haven't   any  plans. 


CROSSING   THE   RUBICON. 


133 


We  have  said  nothing  to  one  another,  asked  each 
other  no  questions.  I  only  know  I  love  him,  and 
I'm  sure  he  loves  me.  We  have  neither  of  us 
gone  beyond  that  stage  for  the  present." 

"  Doesn't  that  seem  to  you  unwise?  "  her  fa- 
ther asked  with  the  voice  of  parental  prudence. 

"  We  mustn't  be  precipitate,"  Olive  answered 
with  the  wisdom  of  youth.  "  We  haven't  thought 
about  these  things  yet.  But  of  one  thing  I  am 
sure.  Cecil  will  not  go  back  any  more  to  Te- 
muka." 

"Are  you  certain  of  that?  He  seemed  so 
set  upon  it." 

"Yes;  that  was  before.  And  it  didn't  really 
mean  that  he  wanted  himself  to  go  back  to 
Temuka;  it  meant,  he  was  afraid  to  stop  here 
any  longer;  because  he  knew  beforehand  in  his 
heart  what  was  coming." 

"  This  is  very  foolish,  Olive.  You  are  en- 
gaging yourself  to  a  man  without  a  chance  of 
marrying." 

"  It  would  be  foolish,  with  some  men.  But 
not  with  him.  I  feel  quite  sure  of  him.  He  is 
better  than  rich.  If  he  has  nothing,  that  will 
only  be  a  spur  to  exertion." 

An  hour  later,  in  the  drawing-room,  Olive 
told  Tom  so,  plainly.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
shy  of  him  now.  Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear; 


134 


in:   INCI 


and  she  was  far  too  much  in  love  to  think  of 
anything  else  save  what  she  needed  to  tell  him. 

"Do  you   think   I   can  ever  do  anything?" 
Tom  asked  once  more. 

I'm  sure  of  it,"  Olive  answered  with  an  o 
flowing   confidence    that    inspired    him    in    turn. 
Y«u  would  have  done  great  things  already  if 
you  hadn't  been  wasted  on  a  Pacific  Island.    You 

e  been  set  to  teach  savages  when  you  were 
fit  for  much  higher  \vork.     What  you  have  to 
do  now  is  to  begin  a  crusade — here,  at  once, 
in  New  South  Wales — against  this  traffic  that  you 
•  I  that  almost  killed  you.     You  mustn't 
go  back  to  Temuka — Papa  can  arrange  all  that 
He  pulls  the  wires  of  the  Society.     You  ni- 
si op  here  and  organic       You  will  be  serving  the 
mi— i<>n   far  better  so  than  by  returning  to   ' 

And  Papa  can  settle  with  the  Society 
at  home  " — "  at  home  "  meaning  England — 
"  that  you  shall  be  engaged  upon  this  work  in- 
stead of  the  oth 

"  But — am  I  fit  for  work  in  . \ustr  Pom 

asked.    "  Remember.  I  am  only  a  wild  man  of  the 
sea.     I  ha\  laid  myself  out  for  a  civilised 

congregation." 

1  hen  what  you  have  to  do  now  is  to  lay 
yourself  out  for  it.  You  can  do  that  if  you  try: 
you  must  know  it  yourself  as  well  as  I  know  it. 


CROSSING   THE    RUBICON. 


135 


You  can  fit  yourself  for  anything.  It  is  only  your 
modesty  that  prevents  you  from  seeing  it." 

Tom  gave  a  slight  sigh.  "  But  it  will  be 
years,"  he  said,  "  such  years,  before  1  can  ever 
hope—" 

Olive  waved  her  capable  hand.  "  What  does 
that  matter?  I  can  wait  years  for  you  if  neces- 
sary. But  it  will  not  be  necessary.  You  will  be 
asked  to  take  some  big  church  soon;  I  feel  quite 
certain  of  it." 

Her  very  voice  inspired  him  with  unwonted 
confidence.  He  began  to  think  better  of  himself 
than  ever  before.  If  Tom  Pringle  was  loyal  to 
anything  in  his  future  life,  he  was  loyal  to  Olive. 
He  admired,  respected,  and  loved  her  intensely; 
he  had  reason  to  love  her;  for  it  was  she  who 
had  made  him.  But  when  the  terrible  doubt 
came  at  last,  and  he  saw  his  own  act  in  ecclesi- 
astical colours,  he  used  often  to  console  himself 
with  the  thought  that  it  was  not  altogether  his 
own  fault  that  he  had  become  a  false  clergy- 
man; it  was  Olive  who  did  it,  unwittingly,  inno- 
cently. Olive  had  made  up  her  mind  that  he 
was  to  advance  in  the  Church,  not  for  filthy 
lucre's  sake,  but  because  she  believed  in  him; 
because  she  loved  him;  she  was  sure  he  could 
do  great  things,  and  therefore  she  made  him  do 
them.  "  Surely,"  he  thought  to  himself  often, 


136  Til!  10P. 

>me  allowance  will  be  mad  my  life  is 

judged,   for  the  magnitude  of  the    temptation, 

the  concatenation  of  events,  for  the  inevitable- 
ness  of  my  action."  He  did  it  all,  he  knew,  not 
wholly  for  mere  love  of  Olive,  but  partly  for  love, 
and  partly  because  he  saw  no  other  way  out  of 
an  impossible  situation. 

Ho  since   Olive   had   decided    that   a 

clergyman  he  was  to  be,  and  a  town  clergyman 
at  that,  he  must  honestly  set  to  work  to  pre- 
pare for  his  vocation.  He  must  fit  himself  for 

position.  And  Tom  Pringle's  habit  was  to 
do  with  his  heart  whatever  he  undertook.  So 
that  very  morning  saw  him  seated  at  a  table  in 
Mr.  Strong's  study,  with  Cecil  Glisson's  Greek 
Testament  spread  out  before  him,  flanked  by 
Pearson  on  the  Creed,  Liddell  and  Scott's  Lr 
con,  and  a  large  blank  note-book.  As  yet,  to 
be  sure,  Tom  had  no  of  his  own  on  the 

nature  of  holy  orders;  or  to  be  more  strictly 

•irate  hi  wen-  a   Bailor's;  but   he  had  a 

honest  dogged  British  determination  that 

if  he  were  really  Cecil  Glisson,  and  a  parson  to 

boot,  he  must  do  his  work  like  a  man,  and  prove 

himself  a  labourer  worthy  of  his  hire. 

You  will  think,  no  doubt .  the  two  points  of 
view  inconsistent.  But  that  is  possibly  because 

i  are  not  an  able-bodied  mariner. 


OF 


J>r 


PART   II. 

ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    PALACE,    DORCHESTER. 

THE  Bishop  of  Dorchester  sat  at  his  dinner 
table  with  Sir  Edward  Colbeck.  It  was  a  cool 
June  evening,  after  a  clear  westerly-blowing  day, 
and  countless  throats  of  nightingales  were  dis- 
coursing vespers  in  the  grounds  of  the  Palace. 
The  Bishop  had  a  dignified,  clean-cut  face,  with 
a  philanthropic  expression  that  was  not  entirely 
professional.  Mrs.  Glisson  sat  opposite  him, 
calm,  sedate,  matronly,  her  beautiful  smooth  hair 
just  beginning  to  be  touched  with  no  unkindly 
hand  of  time  by  the  gentle  grey  of  comely  middle 
age.  Evelyn  faced  Sir  Edward.  It  was  a  family 
party. 

Dorchester  Palace  is  not,  as  many  ill-informed 
people  suppose,  in  Dorsetshire.  The  house  stands 
in  a  bight  of  the  chalk  downs  on  the  banks  of 
the  Thames,  near  the  Oxfordshire  town  of  the 
same  name;  its  beautiful  grounds  slope  down 
137 


138  THI  'iOP. 

to  the  water's  edge  with  a  smooth  declivity  of 
green  English  turf,  broken  here  and  there  by  tall 
flowering  clumps  of  rhododendron  and  azalea. 
It  has  no  wi<l<  indeed,  but  makes  up  for 

it  by  what  the  eighteenth  century  would  1 
described  as  a  prospect — a  pretty  glimpse  o 
a  lawn,  past  a  spreading  copper  beech  and  some 
noble  cedars,  to  a  blue  reach  of  the  ri\ 

The  Palace  itself,  though  comparatively  new, 
has  been  quickly  draped  over  by  fast-growing 
s.  A  huge  wistaria  hangs  its  pendent 
blue  clusters  in  a  cataract  of  bloom  along  the 
river  front;,  a  large-leaved  aristolochia  mantles 
the  posts  of  the  verandah  with  its  pale  green 

ige;  banksia   roses  and   honeysuckle   fall   in 
a  riot  of  blossom  over  the  upper  floor  nia 

oper  droops  in  waving  sprays  from  the  finials 
of  the  gable  end.  The  grey  stone  of  the  wall 
and  the  jutting  corbels  show  just  enough  in  be- 
tween to  make  the  architecture  of  the  present 
day  pass  muster  at  a  hasty  glance  for  that  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  Seen  from  the  Thames, 
indeed,  Dorchester  Palace  ranks,  says  the  local 
guide  book,  as  the  most  picturesque  house  be- 
\\  indsor  and  Oxford.  The  dining-room 
looks  out  in  one  direction  on  the  Thames,  while 

•  inmands  on  the  other  a  delicious  glimpse 
the  mouldering  old  inin-ter. 


THE   PALACE,   DORCHESTER. 


139 


"  Yes/'  Sir  Edward  remarked,  helping  himself 
to  another  olive;  "  it  was  lucky  you  put  in  that 
postscript  about  your  county.  When  I  saw  your 
address  at  the  head  of  your  note-paper,  '  Dor- 
chester Palace,  Oxfordshire/  I  didn't  pay  any 
particular  attention  to  the  last  word;  and,  know- 
ing but  one  Dorchester,  in  Dorset,  I  naturally 
would  have  run  down  there,  if  you  hadn't  warned 
me  that  this  was  another  place  of  the  same 
name." 

"-Most  people  make  that  mistake,"  Evelyn 
put  in.  "  I  always  tell  Papa  he  ought  to  add  in 
italics  on  the  die,  '  not  Dorset';  but  he  thinks 
that  would  be  infra  dig.  I  hate  dig.  for  my  part. 
He  says  everybody  ought  to  know  the  dioceses 
of  England." 

"Well,  7  didn't,  anyhow,"  Sir  Edward  an- 
swered frankly.  He  was  a  portly  and  thick-set 
Philistine,  of  the  self-complacent  moneyed  order. 
"  Never  heard  till  to-day  there  was  more  than 
one  Dorchester.  And  with  a  cathedral,  too;  a 
real  old  cathedral;  not  one  of  these  new-fangled 
modern  things  like  Truro,  but  a  mediaeval  min- 
ster!" 

"  It  was  not  a  cathedral  in  the  middle  ages," 
the  Bishop  put  in  anxiously: — "  at  least,  I  mean, 
not  the  existing  building.  The  building  you  now 
see  was  only  a  monastery  church  of  the  Augus- 


10 


I40  THE    INX'II>:  HISHOP. 

tinian  abbey.     It's  mostly  thirteenth  century,  and 
ist  restored  it.    But  earlier  still,  of  course, 
this  Oxfordshire  Dorchester  was  a  place  of  great 
importance.    It  ranks  as  one  of  our  earliest  Er 
lish  cathedral  towns.     In  a  certain  sense/' — the  I 
Bishop  poised  his  two  hands  before  him  with 
the  finger-tips  meeting — "  I  may  be  said  to  oc- 
cupy the  chair  of  Birinus." 

He  said  it  with  the  conscious  air  of  a  man 
who  imparts  to  his  hearer  a  striking  piece  of 
information. 

"  Oh,  indeed?  "  Sir  Edward  murmured,  pour- 
ing out  a  second  glass  of  port.  "  That's  very 
interesting/'  The  native  curiosity  overcame  him. 

hough,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it/1  IK  \\ 
on,  eying  the  port   with   the  light   through   it, 
"  who  or  what  was  Birinus?  " 

Evelyn  looked  up  at  him  mischievously. 
"  Ohf  Sir  Edward/'  she  said,  "  you  don't  know 
what  you've  let  yourself  in  for.  When  once  Papa 
gets  started  upon  the  subject  of  Birinus,  we  know 
that  the  history  of  Dorchester  in  six  volumes  is 
bound  to  follow,  with  digressions  on  the  dio- 
ceses of  Winchester  and  Lincoln,  and  the  v; 
ous  sees  into  which  they  have  been  divid 
When  you  said.  '  That's  :v; y  interesting/  in  such 
a  voice  of  conviction.  Papa  thought  you  knew 
all  about  Birinus  already,  and  was  going  to  let 


THE    PALACE,    DORCHESTER. 


141 


you  off.  Now  you  fly  straight  into  it,  as  Big- 
wood  says  about  the  partridges  when  Mr.  Wat- 
son shoots,  and  you'll  have  the  whole  subject 
in  the  regulation  six  volumes." 

Mrs.  Glisson  looked  across  at  her  daughter 
with  gentle  reproof  in  her  eyes.  "  Evelyn  dear," 
she  said  softly,  "  Papa  knows  so  much  more  than 
anybody  else  about  the  history  of  the  church 
that  visitors  are  naturally  glad  to  hear  all  about 
it  from  him." 

"  Besides,"  Sir  Edward  interposed,  "  now  the 
question  has  been  raised,  I  really  want  to  know 
about  this  fellow  Birinus  who  made  the  chair 
the  Bishop  is  sitting  in.  I'm  fond  of  old  furni- 
ture. I  suppose  he  was  some  mediaeval  Chip- 
pendale or  Sheraton." 

The  Bishop  coughed  slightly.  "  When  I  said 
I  sat  in  the  seat  of  Birinus,"  he  answered,  look- 
ing sideways  with  a  repressive  glance  at  Evelyn, 
who  was  disposed  to  laugh,  "  I  employed  a  meta- 
phor: I  did  not  mean  it  literally  but  figuratively. 
Birinus,  in  point  of  fact,  was  the  first  bishop  of 
Dorchester;  or,  to  be  more  strictly  accurate,  the 
first  bishop  in  Dorchester;  for  bishoprics  at  that 
time  were  tribal  rather  than  local;  there  was  a 
Bishop  of  the  West  Saxons,  not  a  Bishop  of 
Wessex  nor  a  Bishop  of  Winchester;  there  was 
a  Bishop  of  the  Kentings,  not  a  Bishop  of  Kent 


I42  Tin  :  NIAL  uisiiop. 

nor  a  Bishop  of  Canterbury;  there  was  a  Bishop 
of  the  Mercians,  not  a  Bishop  of  Mercia  nor  a 
Bishop  of  Lichfield.  In  the  Anglo-Saxon  lan- 
guage " — Evelyn  made  a  wry  face — "  a  bishoj 
is  oftenest  described  as  a  bishop-stool — a  literal 
translation,  of  course,  of  see,  the  Latin  So 

when  I  say  that  I  sit  in  the  chair  of  Birinus,  I 
mean  merely  to  convey  that  I  occupy  in  a  sense 
the  pastoral  direction  of  the  same  diocese,  or  part 
of  i 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  Sir  Edward  answered,  glancing 
sympathetically  at   Evelyn.     He  began  to  per- 

e  the  nature  of  her  objection  to  starting  the 
Bishop  on  mediaeval  history. 

But  the  Bishop  was  started  now,  and  was  not 
to  be  easily  stopped.    "  Dorchester,"  he  contin- 

1,  putting  the  forefingers  and  thumbs  of  both 
hands  together  once  more  in  a  sort  of  leaf-shape 
above    his    finger-glass,    "  Dorchester,    you    will 
recollect,  was  the  original  capital  of  the  \Y< 
Saxon  kings;  this  Oxfordshire  Dorchester,  Dor- 
chest  er-on-Thames,  not  in  Oxfordshire  then,  for 
neither  Oxford  nor  counties  as  yet  existed.     It 
a  the  royal  city  of  Cynegils," — "I  beg  your 
pardon,"   Sir   Edward   ejaculated.     "  Cynegi 
the  Bishop  repeated  blandly, — "  the  first  Chris- 
tion  king  of  the  West-Saxons.    In  635.  yon  n 
be  aware,  the  Pope  sent  Birinus.  a  Xortli  Italian 


THE    PALACE,    DORCHESTER. 


143 


monk,  to  convert  the  West-Saxons,  about  forty 
years  after  St.  Augustine  of  Canterbury  had  con- 
verted the  Kentishmen.  Now,  Cynegils  had  his 
court  here  at  Dorchester;  so  to  Dorchester  ac- 
cordingly Birinus  came;  and  unless  I  mistake, 
he  baptised  the  English  king  over  yonder  in  the* 
Thames,  at  a  spot  close  to  that  large  clump  of 
rhododendrons  which  we  planted  last  autumn. 
Baptism  by  immersion  was  then  still  universal; 
Baeda — the  Venerable  Bede,  as  people  call  him 
nowadays — mentions  no  other  method/' 

"We  planted  white  rhododendrons/'  Mrs. 
Glisson  interposed,  "  as  a  memento  of  the  fact — 
white  being  of  course  the  symbolical  colour  of 
baptismal  regeneration." 

"  There's  such  a  funny  little  picture  of  the 
baptism  of  this  king  with  the  dreadful  name/' 
Evelyn  put  in  once  more,  "  in  an  illuminated 
missal  Papa  has  upstairs  in  his  library.  It  shows 
the  old  gentleman  and  his  nobles  all  undressing 
on  the  bank — with  the  ladies  as  well — and  such  a 
funny  little  bishop,  in  a  mitre  and  a  dalmatic  or 
whatever  you  call  it,  standing  on  the  river  shore 
with  two  fingers  up,  like  this,  blessing  them.  It 
is  so  comical." 

"  And  that  illumination,"  the  Bishop  added, 
"  has  fortunately  enabled  me  to  identify  the  pre- 
cise spot  pointed  out  by  tradition  as  being  the 


144  II1:  IJISHOP. 

scene  of  the  admission  of  the  people  of  V 
into  the  Christian  church.  It  was  drawn  from 
nature  by  an  Augustinian  monk  of  this  very  abbey 
about  1430,  and  it  clearly  points  to  the  bank 
just  below  the  clump  of  white  rhododendrons  as 
•  being  the  actual  place  where  Birinus  adminis- 
tered the  sacrament  of  baptism.  It  is  a  very 
precious  document."  (If  the  Bishop  had  a  fault, 
it  was  a  faint  deficiency  in  the  sense  of  humour.) 

"  Dear  me!  "  Sir  Edward  murmured,  begin- 
ning to  yawn.     "  How  very  interesting!  " 

When  a  man  says'"  How  very  interesting!  " 
t wice  over  in  the  same  conversation.  wi<e  people 
know  that  the  subject  bores  him,  and  (unless 
they  are  prigs)  they  proceed  at  once  to  another, 
the  Bishop  still  retained  too  much  of  Tom 
lYm-le's  ;  innocence  ever  to  recognise 

that  a  subject  which  interested  Aim  might  bore 
other  people.  So  he  merely  an  Yes, 

it  interesting.     One  feels  that  here  one 

has  got  down,  so  to  speak,  to  the  very  bed-rock 
of  British  Christianity.  At  Dorchester,  we  touch 
bottom.  There,  in  this  self-same  Thames,  which 
has  gone  on  flowing  unceasingly  from  that  day 
to  this,  by  yonder  tussock  of  sedge,  the  Latin 
monk  from  Lombardy,  dispatched  by  Pope 
Honorius,  baptised  in  running  water  after  the 
older  form  the  heathen  king  of  the  West-Saxons, 


THE   PALACE,    DORCHESTER.  ^5 

and  so  founded  the  bishopric  which  I  now — un- 
worthily— occupy.  Is  it  not  a  strange  thought 
that  I  here,  to-day,  am  the  representative  of 
Birinus  in  the  seventh  century?  " 

"  I  don't  think  anybody  else  feels  this  con- 
tinuity of  history  quite  so  vividly  as  my  hus- 
band/' Mrs.  Glisson  added  with  a  look  of  deep 
wifely  admiration. 

'*  It  is  you  who  have  made  me  feel  it,  dear/* 
the  Bishop  replied,  returning  her  look  with  in- 
terest. "  Not,  of  course,  that  the  continuity  is 
here  quite  unbroken.  I  said  that,  in  a  sense,  I 
occupy  to-day  the  bishop-stool  of  Birinus.  But 
it  is  only  in  a  sense;  I  admit  that  unreservedly. 
In  one  way — the  truest  way,  my  excellent  col- 
league, the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  represents  the 
original  see  of  the  West-Saxon  kingdom;  which 
is  why,  of  course,  the  Bishop  of  Winchester  ranks 
first  after  the  Primates  among  English  bishops." 

"  Indeed/'  Sir  Edward  interjected.  He  was 
a  Member  of  Parliament  from  an  industrial  Lan- 
cashire borough,  and  history  began  for  him  with 
the  invention  of  the  cotton  jenny. 

''  Yes,"  the  unconscious  Bishop  continued, 
toying  aimlessly  with  his  wineglass.  "  The  de- 
scent, I  must  admit,  is  indirect.  Birinus,  who 
baptised  Cynegils  over  yonder  by  the  rhododen- 
drons— St.  Oswald  of  Northumbria,  you  know, 


140 

-  his  sponsor — Birinus  was  l>i>hop  of  the  \Vest- 
Saxons;  and  tl  -Saxons  at  that  early  age 

held  the  whole  Thames  valley.     Their  kingdom 

ended  as  far  as  the  Severn.     But  later,  Wulf- 
here  of  Mercia  drove  them  across  the  Than 
and  annexed  all  what   was  afterwards  known  as 
Oxfordshire.    Owing  to  that  conquest,  the  \\ 
Saxon  kings  retired  to  Winchester,   which 
came  thenceforth    their  capital.      Indeed,   when 
the  kings  of  \Vessex  grew  into  kings  of  England 
in  the  person  of  Edgar — not  as  is  usually  hut  in- 
correctly stated  of  Egbert — "  at  this  point  the 
Bishop  made  a  rhetorical  pause  so  as  to  lay  e>; 
cial  stress  on  his  own  pet  hobby — "  \\inche 

illy  the  capital  of  the  whole  count 

"  U    that    so?"   Sir   Edward   exclaimed,    not 

knowing  exactly   what   remark  was  expected  of 

him,  and  fingering  tl  -eal  on  his 

heavy  gold   watch-chain.      The   chain   and   the 

istcoat  that  formed  its  background  were  the 
salient  points  of  Sir  Edward's  physiognomy. 

"  Oh,  yes."  the  Bishop  answered,  warming  up 
to  his  subject;  "  Winchester  was  the  capital  of 
England,  not  only  under  Alfred,  but  even  ur 
William  the  Conqueror.    It  was  but  slowly  sup 
seded   by    London,   or   rather   by   Westmin- 

to  the  importance  of  Edward   the  Con- 
fessor's minster.     In  that  sense,  then,  that  he  is 


THE   PALACE,   DORCHESTER.  ^7 

still  the  representative  West-Saxon  Bishop,  my 
dear  friend  at  Winchester  is  the  successor  of 
Birinus.  Then  again,  Dorchester  was  afterwards 
the  seat  of  the  Mercian  bishops  from  Wulfhere's 
conquest  till  1073 — or  was  it  1074? — I  forget  the 
exact  date,  but  at  any  rate,  some  time  in  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror's  reign;  when  Remigius  re- 
moved the  see  to  Lincoln.  In  that  sense,  there- 
fore, Dr.  Blenkinsopp  is  really  the  successor  of 
Birinus,  or  at  any  rate  of  the  historical  bishopric 
of  Dorchester." 

"I  see,"  Sir  Edward  answered  with  a  mute 
look  of  appeal  to  Evelyn.  But  Evelyn  only  smiled 
a  familiar  little  smile  and  expanded  her  hands 
as  who  should  say,  "  You  would  rush  into  it. 
If  you  get  it  all  now,  you've  only  yourself  to 
blame.  Don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you." 

"  I  need  hardly  add,"  the  Bishop  went  on, 
"  that  not  one  stone  of  the  existing  cathedral 
dates  back  to  the  days  when  Dorchester  was 
still  an  old  Saxon  bishopric.  The  minster  which 
Remigius  deserted  for  the  Roman  hill  of  Lin- 
coln was  no  doubt  a  wooden  one.  But  the  site 
had  always  ecclesiastical  importance;  and  in  the 
later  middle  ages,  when  the  Thames  became  the 
main  highway  of  Plantagenet  England,  the  Au- 
gustinian  monks  built  the  beautiful  church  over 
which  I  am  now  permitted  to  preside — "  he  ut- 


148  TH1  it    BISHOP. 

tered  that  word  "  permitted  "  with  a  touch  of 
something  more  than  conventional  episcopal 
modesty; — "  the  greater  part  of  it  being  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself  by 
glancing  out  of  this  window." 

Sir  Edward  rose  and  looked  at  it  casually. 
He  could  see  nothing  of  the  sort;  for  his  knowl- 
edge of  architecture  was  a  negative  quantity; 
but  he  contented  himself  with  saying  in  a  tone 
of  cheap  conviction:  "  Dear  me,  you  don't  say 
so." 

"  And  when  the  crying  need  for  an  increase 
in  the  episcopate  began  to  be  deeply  felt/    the 
Bishop  went  on.  quite  unconscious  of  his  ru 
er's  boredom.  "  it  was  natural  that  a  site  so  long 
connected  with  the  Church  in  one  form  or  an- 
other,  and   possessing  so  splendid  an   old   his- 
torical  building,  should  be  chosen  as  the  s< 
of  one  of  the  new  dioceses.    I  urged  it  myself:   I 

ocated  the  division  of  the  diocese  from  the 
beginning;  I  always  said,  long  before  it  occur 
to  me  that  anybody  could  consider  me  worthy 
to  occupy  a  place  on  the  episcopal  bench.  *  Dor- 
chester is  the  proper  seat  for  the  new  bishop.' ' 

"Oh,  but  he  did  much  more  than   that. 
Edward."   Mrs.  Glisson  put   in   with   wifely  x< 
"  he  made  the  bishopric.     Cecil   never  thought 
of  himself  or  his  own  comfort.    He  went  up  and 


THE   PALACE,    DORCHESTER. 


149 


down  the  country  preaching  like  an  apostle;  and 
he  collected  all  the  funds  with  his  magnetic  elo- 
quence. Then  they  offered  him  the  see;  but  he 
didn't  want  to  take  it.  He  said  his  heart  was 
more  at  home  among  his  poor  people  in  the  Black 
Country:  he  would  not  desert  his  chain-makers. 
—Now,  you  know  you  did,  Cecil. — But  the  Prime 
Minister  insisted;  and  in  the  end  he  took  it." 

"  After  promising  me,  Olive,  you  must  re- 
member," the  Bishop  continued,  "  that  he  would 
transfer  me  to  Wolverhampton  as  soon  as  that 
projected  diocese  is  constituted.  I  made  this 
one  for  Reading,  you  see,  Sir  Edward,  with  its 
enormous  biscuit  factories;  I  take  an  interest  in 
my  people  there;  but  my  heart  is  always  with 
the  puddlers  and  the  chain-makers." 

"  And  he  was  killing  himself  at  Cradley," 
Evelyn  put  in;  "  and  if  he  hadn't  been  sent  here 
to  vegetate  by  the  Thames  for  a  year  or  two, 
in  peace,  he'd  have  died  in  harness.  I  told  the 
Prime  Minister  so,  and  he  said  to  me:  '  Miss 
Glisson,  I  know  your  father.  He's  a  willing 
horse,  and  will  work  himself  to  death.  He  needs 
a  curb,  not  a  spur.  We'll  give  him  Dorchester 
for  a  year  or  two  to  quiet  him.  He'll  have  to  rest 
there,  comparatively,  and  it  will  do  his  health 
good.  By  and  by,  if  he's  good,  he  may  go  back 
to  his  chain-makers.  Or  at  least,  we'll  promise 


Or  TTTF 


150 


him  that  he  shall,  to  pacify  him.*     For  my  \ 
]  hope  we  shall  stop  here  always.     I  just  love 
this  dear  place;  and  I  don't   want   to  go  back 
to  that  beastly  Cradley." 

The  Bishop  smiled.  "  My  dear,"  he  said  not 
unkindly,  "  I  cannot  be  expected  to  regulate  the 
acceptance  or  rejection  of  the  work  cut  out  for 
me  by  your  personal  preferences.  I  must  go 
wherever  I  think  I  can  be  most  useful." 

"  Papa's    so    dreadfully    in    earnest."    K 
added.     **  He   takes  bishoping  seriously.      If   I 

e  a  l>i-hop,  I'd  go  in  for  chasubles.    But  IV 

es  it  out  in  episcopal  sion.     He's  so 

full  of  its  being  a  man's  duty,  however  he  gets 
thrown  into  any  walk  of  life,  to  do  the  best  he 
can  in  it." 

The  Bishop's  brow  clouded.  "  Yes,"  he  re- 
peated slowly;  "however  he  gets  thrown  into 
it.  If  chance  makes  you  a  sailor,  be  a  sailor  with 
a  will.  If  chance  makes  you — I  mean,  if  Pr< 
dence  makes  you  a  bishop,  by  whatever  strange 
steps,  be  a  bishop  with  a  will,  and  try  to  make 
the  best  of  it ." 

'   Xow,  Cecil  dear,  I  will  not  let  you  say,  *  by 
whatever   strange    steps,"     Mrs.    Glisson    inter- 
rupted.    "  There  never  was  anyone  so  absurdly 
modest  as  my  husband.   Sir  Edward.     He   1 
risen  in  the  Church  purely  l>y  dint  of  his  own  hard 


THE   PALACE,    DORCHESTER.  jj! 

work  and  his  devotedness  of  purpose;  and  he 
always  talks  as  if  he  were  there  by  chance,  and 
had  dropped  into  a  bishopric  through  a  hole  in 
the  ceiling.  Isn't  that  so,  Cecil?  " 

The  Bishop  started.  He  was  in  a  deep  reverie. 
Her  words  had  roused  again  that  eternal  re- 
morse. Could  no  amount  of  well-doing  atone  for 
the  way  he  had  climbed  into  the  fold  by  stealth 
like  a  thief  in  the  night?  After  thirty  years  of 
outer  conformity  and  hard  work  for  the  office 
he  had  assumed  by  chance,  was  he  not  yet  a 
clergyman? 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

PERPLEXITY. 

"CECIL  is  in  a  brown  study.  Mrs.  Glisson 
remarked  in  an  undertone  to  Sir  Edward  He 
often  gets  so.  I  sometimes  think  he  has  worked 
too  hard  in  both  ways, — at  clerical  work  and  in 
his  library."  They  had  strolled  out  into  the 
garden  through  the  open  French  window,  and 
Mrs.  Glisson  was  pacing  the  lawn,  hatless,  in  the 
warm  June  twilight.  "  You  know,  my  husband 
had  not  the  usual  advantages  of  a  university  edu- 
cation; and  when  he  began  to  take  seriously  to 
cler  >rk— other  than  missionary  work,  I 
mean — he  felt  the  want  of  deeper  knowledge. 
The  consequence  was,  being  a  very  thorough 
man,  he  set  about  studying  hard  at  theological 
literature:  and  he  worked  in  so  many  ways  to- 
gether— at  the  Fathers,  you  know " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon/*  Sir  Edward  put  in.  in- 
terrupting her  and  looking  puzzled.     "  The  I 
there?    What  Fathers: 

Mr-  :iiled.     She  had  helped  her  ] 


PERPLEXITY.  !-j 

band  so  long  in  his  editions  of  Jerome  and  Cyril 
that  patristic  literature  was  to  her  quite  familiar. 
"  Oh,  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  you  know,"  she 
answered  with  a  little  apologetic  wave  of  her 
hand  towards  the  figure  of  the  retreating  Bishop, 
who  stood  gazing  at  the  spot  where  Birinus  had 
baptised  the  gentleman  with  the  unpronounce- 
able name.  "  My  husband  is  much  interested  in 
them — St.  Augustine  and  St.  Ambrose  and  St. 
Gregory,  don't  you  know;  he  has  worked  much 
at  all  of  them.  But  then,  at  the  same  time,  he 
was  working  at  his  Comparative  Grammar  of  the 
Melanesian  Languages,  and  at  his  evangelising 
labour  among  the  Queensland  immigrants,  and 
at  so  many  other  things.  Then  again  later,  when 
he  was  doing  so  much  for  the  Cradley  chain- 
makers,  he  was  also  engaged  on  his  Epistles  of 
St.  Cyril.  People  will  tell  you  it  was  his  Cradley 
work  that  got  him  made  Canon  and  then  Bishop; 
but  Mr.  Gladstone  told  me  himself  one  main  rea- 
son for  his  appointment  was  that  he  thought  so 
highly  of  my  husband's  Hellenistic  Concordance 
to  the  Synoptic  Gospels." 

'That  was  extremely  gratifying!"  Sir  Ed- 
ward exclaimed,  with  heavy  dignity,  beginning  to 
think  the  Bishopess  almost  as  serious  as  the 
Bishop.  The  Bishopina,  indeed,  was  the  only 
member  of  the  family  he  could  quite  comprehend. 


NTAL    BI 


\\'hat  sort  of  Gospel  a  synoptic  might  be  he 
hadn't  the  faintest  notion.  A>  lie  remarked  to 
Lady  Colbeck  the  moment  he  got  safe  home 
again,  Matthew.  Mark,  Luke,  and  John  were 
good  enough  for  him,  and  he  didn't  much  care  to 
know  any  new  ones. 

"  Papa  does  work  too  hard,"  the  Bishopina 
put  in.  She  was  of  a  mundane  nature.  "  IT 
what  makes  him  so  moody.  He's  the  dearest 
father  any  girl  ever  had;  but  sometime>  \\hen 
I  go  into  his  study  in  the  morning,  to  ask  him 
some  question,  he's  sitting  there  mooning,  with 
Cyril  or  somebody  open  on  the  table  before  him, 
and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  as  if  he  was  waiting 

inspiration,  so  that  he  doesn't  even  know  I'm 
there  till  I've  spoken  three  times  to  him." 

I  le  seems  unduly  absorbed/'  Sir  Edward  ad- 
mitted.    "  Such  an  onerous  position." 

"  Too  many  irons  in   the  fire,   poor  de 
Evelyn    responded    with    youthful    frankness   of 
criticism.    To  a  bishop's  daughter,  even  a  bishop 
is  human.     Rococo,  but  human. 

"  I  think  you  said  he  began  life  as  a  mission- 
ary," Sir  Edward  interposed.  "  Odd  beginning 
for  such  an  end.  Not  exactly  the  place  most 
our  bishops  come  from."  He  was  an  emphatic 
man,  and  he  rapped  out  his  remarks  witli  inanu- 
iring  jerkiness. 


PERPLEXITY.  Tj5 

Mrs.  Glisson  sat  down  on  the  garden  seat  and 
began  a  glowing  account  of  dear  Cecil's  early  dif- 
ficulties and  how  by  earnestness,  energy,  and  pure 
singleness  of  spirit  he  had  gradually  overcome 
them.  She  did  not  add  that  whatever  he  had 
done  she  had  helped  him  to  do;  that  was  not 
Olive  Glisson's  way;  she  worshipped  her  hus- 
band, and  she  gave  him  the  glory.  "  He's  not 
an  ornamental  bishop,"  she  said.  "  He  has 
worked  hard  all  his  life.  And  now  I'm  afraid  his 
hard  work  is  beginning  to  tell  upon  him." 

"  He  wants  rest,"  Evelyn  put  in.  "  Sir  Ed- 
ward, I  wish  he  could  have  accepted  your  invita- 
tion to  go  yachting  to  Norway." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  her  mother  an- 
swered. "  On  a  yacht,  he  would  have  been  idle. 
I  often  fancy,  Evelyn,  Papa  is  best  when  he  has 
most  to  do.  Since  we've  been  here  at  Dor- 
chester and  he  has  had  time  to  think,  it  seems 
to  me  he  has  worried  much  more  than  he  used 
to  do  at  Cradley.  The  chain-makers  were  good 
for  him.  He  is  happiest  when  he  is  bearing 
other  people's  troubles.  If  he  feels  he  is  doing 
good,  that  makes  him  happiest  of  anything." 

Meanwhile,  the  Bishop,  strolling  slowly  by 
himself,  had  paused  by  the  brink,  with  his  gait- 
ered  legs  in  the  episcopal  attitude  of  close  atten- 
tion, and  was  gazing  into  the  baptismal  stream 
ii 


156  THI  u.  BISHOP. 

of  I.irimis.  He  was  trying  hi>  best  to  fix  his  at- 
tention upon  those  schools  at  \Vallingford.  They 
re  sorely  needed.  And  he  loved  to  do  good, 
as  Olive  had  said  of  him.  Two  lines  of  an  Eliza- 
bethan dramatist  often  seemed  to  help  him; 
Ford  put  them  into  Jane  Shore's  mouth,  but 
they  served  for  him  equally: 

"  Although  my  good  can  not  redeem  my  ill 
Yet  to  do  good  I  will  remember  still." 

He  sat  down  by  the  brink,  where  Birinus  had 
stood  so  many  centuries  before,  and  gazed  again 
into  the  water.  The  long  reflection  of  the  trees 
on  the  opposite  bank  fell  half  across  the  ri\ 
Something  that  night  made  it  all  come  back  to 
him:  he  seemed  to  see  his  past  life  in  the  flickers 
of  the  beech-trees.  He  thought  how  he  had 
gone  away  from  Sydney,  with  Mr.  Strong's  com- 
mission, to  preach  down  the  labour  traffic  in  all 
the  t..wiis  of  Australia.  He  thought  how  Oli\ 
strength  of  character  had  helped  him  to  do  it. 
He  recalled  those  crowded  days,  when  he  poured 
fort  ins  of  eloquent  denunciation  on  Sun- 

days and  holidays,  and  gave  up  his  nights  to  dili- 
gent study  of  Greek  and  of  the  Melanesian  tongue 
he  was  supposed  to  have  learned  long  before  at 
Tcmnka. 

Then  the  rest  recurred  in  all  its  long  order. 


PERPLEXITY.  I57 

He  saw  himself  working  hard  to  make  a  home 
for  Olive — as  soon  as  he  thought  he  was  enough 
of  a  parson  to  bear  the  daily  scrutiny  of  a  par- 
son's daughter.  How  eagerly  he  had  thrown 
himself  into  the  task  of  denouncing  the  horrors 
he  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes;  how  he  had 
worked  with  a  will  not  to  disgrace  the  name  he 
had  taken  upon  him  by  so  strange  a  set  of  acci- 
dents! He  succeeded  at  last  in  his  efforts  at 
breaking  down  the  worst  evils  of  the  hateful 
slave-traffic,  and  then  was  appointed  Government 
inspector  and  chaplain  to  the  immigrants  in 
Queensland.  Sent  to  England  finally,  five  years 
after  he  married  Olive,  he  had  come  in  fear  and 
trembling,  on  a  missionary  trip,  alarmed  at  every 
turn  lest  in  London  or  Liverpool  some  sailor  who 
had  been  a  shipmate  might  see  and  recognise 
him.  But  gradually,  these  earlier  terrors  wore 
away.  His  metamorphosis  was  too  complete. 
Twice  he  had  met  shipmates  who  gazed  at  him 
and  went  their  way,  unsuspicious;  it  was  clear 
they  never  dreamt  of  recognising  Tom  Pringle 
the  seaman  in  the  close-shaven,  clerically  dressed 
man  who  stood  before  them. 

His  missionary  trip  was  an  immense  success; 
his  native  gift  of  eloquence  excited  attention  in 
England;  and  his  own  Society  interested  itself  in 
finding  him  a  parish  in  the  Black  Country,  where 


•53 


TIM  \l.    BISHOP. 


it  thought  he  might  be  more  useful  to  it  than  in 
Queensland  or  Sidney.  Cecil  Glisson — as  he  now 
called  himself — accepted  the  change  with  a  cer- 
tain passive  calm  which  had  become  habitual 
with  him  since  his  total  loss  of  his  own  person- 
ality. Eager  always  to  escape  from  his  torturing 
thoughts  by  plunging  into  work,  he  had  thrown 
himself  body  and  soul  into  the  service  of  the 
chain-makers,  and  had  succeeded  in  greatly  al- 
leviating the  hardships  of  their  condition.  He 
had  preached  the  gospel  of  a  fair  wage,  and 
had  not  been  so  studious  of  literary  grace  as 
of  convincing  his  hearers.  So,  step  by  step,  Olive 
always  assisting,  he  had  worked  his  way  up, 
without  thought  of  self,  to  a  canon ry  and  a  bish- 
opric, rather  by  honest  hard  work  than  by  culti- 
vating what  is  known  as  clerical  influence. 

Yet  at  eacli  upward  step,  his  life  grew  c 
more  and  more  unendurable  to  him.     Had  he 
been  a  really  bad  man.  like  r.lackburne.  the  P.nc- 
caneer    Bishop   of   the   eighteenth    century,    he 

uld  not  have  felt  it  so  deeply.     Had  he  \n 
a  complete  unbeliever,  he  might  only  have  been 
impressed   by   the   moral   wrong   of   his   dec 
tion.     But  what  made  it  w«»r>t  was  that  he 
now  in  essence  a  churchman  and  an  ecclesiolo- 
gist. 

At  the  outset,  to  be  sure,  the  Tom  Pri:. 


PERPLEXITY. 


159 


who  was  now  practically  no  more  had  possessed 
just  an  ordinary  sailor's  modicum  of  Christian 
doctrine.  In  a  vague  and  careless  way  he  had 
passively  accepted  the  religion  of  his  fathers, 
without  concerning  himself  much  as  to  its  de- 
tails or  its  formularies.  He  thought  it  was  all 
true,  but  that  it  was  the  business  of  clergymen. 
Still,  he  was  by  nature  a  hard  worker;  and  once 
turned  by  chance  into  the  outer  show  of  a  par- 
son, a  parson  he  had  become,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  save  those  of  the  sacerdotalist.  His 
standpoint  was  now  that  of  the  historically 
minded  Anglican.  He  was  never  one  of  those 
modern  philosophic  clergymen  who  generously 
condescend  to  patronise  Christianity.  He  be- 
lieved— and  trembled.  And  the  very  fact  that 
intellectually  he  took  a  serious  view  of  the  priest- 
ly functions  made  the  knowledge  that  in  reality 
he  was  not  a  priest  at  all  more  and  more  alarm- 
ing to  him. 

So  he  stood  gazing  at  the  trees  that  flickered 
in  the  water  where  Birinus  had  introduced  Chris- 
tianity into  Wessex  with  a  vague  sort  of  wish 
that  Birinus  could  come  back  with  a  private  or- 
dination to  remove  secretly  the  blot  on  his  own 
episcopal  scutcheon. 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  Bishop/'  Mrs.  Glis- 
son  said,  looking  towards  him.  "  I  never  like  to 


l6o  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

leave  him  alone  when  he  falls  into  one  of  these 
reveries." 

They  strolled  back,  still  talking.  "  Yes,  it 
is  an  unusual  career,"  Mrs.  Glisson  said.  "  Few 
bishops  have  seen  so  many  varied  phases  of  1 
But  then,  my  husband  is  so  clever,  so  earnest, 
so  hard-working.  You  should  have  seen  the  way 
he  rode  all  round  Queensland,  from  station  to 
station,  looking  after  his  blackfellows." 

And  could  he  speak  their  language?"  Sir 
Edward  asked,  as  they  reached  the  spot  where 
the  Bishop  was  standing.    He  had  the  usual  < 
aggerated  respect  of  half-educated  men  for  mere 
linguistic  attainments. 

The  Bishop  answered  for  himself,  looking  up 
suddenly  from  his  dream  at  the  touch  of  his  wife's 
hand.     "Oh.  yes.  I  spoke  their  language  quite 
fluently;  I  speak  it  still.     I  learnt  it  while  I  \ 
labouring  among  them  in  Northern  Queensland." 

"  But  you  knew  it  before,  Cecil,"  Mrs.  Glisson 
interposed,  correcting  him.  "  You  spoke  it,  of 
course,  on  Temtika  " 

The  Bishop's  face  flushed  fiery  red.  He  sel- 
dom allowed  himself  these  verbal  slips,  though  he 
avoided  them  as  far  as  possible  by  vague  generali- 
tics;  for  a  lie  direct  was  intensely  distasteful  to 
him.  "  Ah  yes,  on  Temuka."  he  answered.  "  Yes 
—of  course — on  Temuka.  But  then,  though  the 


PERPLEXITY,  X6i 

language  is  essentially  the  same  throughout  all 
the  islands,  the  dialects  differ  so  much,  you 
know.  It's  all  a  question  of  dialect."  And  he 
looked  up  appealingly. 

"  He  was  a  missionary  at  Temuka,"  Mrs.  Glis- 
son  went  on,  "  before  I  met  him.  Evelyn  has 
told  you  the  story  of  his  capture  and  his  mar- 
vellous rescue  from  the  piratical  labour  vessel. 
Most  romantic,  isn't  it?" 

"  But  Papa  will  never  talk  about  Temuka," 
Evelyn  put  in  once  more,  in  her  irreverent  man- 
ner. "  A  bishop  has  never  a  Past,  of  course,  or 
I  should  almost  believe  Papa's  Past  was  on  Te- 
muka. He  so  carefully  avoids  saying  anything 
about  it.  My  own  belief  is,  he  was  glad  to  get 
away  from  it." 

"  Evelyn,  my  dear,  how  can  you  talk  so?  " 
Mrs.  Glisson  exclaimed,  horrified.  "  Why,  he 
was  longing  to  get  back,  and  if  I  hadn't  insisted 
that  he  mustn't  waste  the  great  talents  which 
Providence  had  given  him  on  a  single  small  island 
—hide  them  in  a  napkin,  so  to  speak — I  believe 
he  would  have  gone  back  and  lived  and  died 
there." 

"  That's  just  it,"  Evelyn  insisted,  with  a  mis- 
chievous voice — she  was  no  respecter  of  bishops 
— "  That  was  his  Past,  you  may  be  certain.  She 
was  waiting  for  him  on  the  island.  Having  got 


j62  THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

rid  of  the  Past  with  a  violent  effort,  and  married 
you,  dear,  he  naturally  doesn't  care  to  dwell  u; 
the  subject.     I  always  notice  he  declines  to  say 
much  about  anything  that  occurred  before  he 
first  met  you,  Mother.     Isn't  that  so,  Daddy?" 
And  she  looked  up  at  him  quizzically.    For  K 
lyn.  you  will  perceive,  was  a  very  modern  young 
lady. 

The  Bishop's  face  wore  an  anxious  expression 
as  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  "  My  child," 
he  said  evasively.  "  if  you  rattle  on  like  this,  Sir 
Edward  will  think  I  have  failed  egregiously  in 
one  main  apostolic  requirement  in  a  bishop,  *  One 
that  ruleth  well  his  own  house,  having  his  chil- 
dren in  subjection  with  all  gravity/  You  are 
distinctly  lacking  in  gravity,  Evelyn." 

He  said  it  half  playfully,  but  Mrs.  Glisson 
a  shadow  of  pain  cross  his  face,  and  hastened  to 
turn  aside   the  comer-Nation   into  some  lighter 
.nnel.      She   called   attention   to   the   copper 
beeches. 

Jfet,  you  have  a  lovely  place  here/'  Sir 
ward  admitted,  tiring  uft"  his  pompous  common- 
places with  a  ponderous  air  of  profound  on 
nality.     "  Nature  is  very  charming.     Her  work- 
are  all   so  complete.      Their    minuteness!    their 
beauty!    A  shell  now!  or  a  flower!     The  perfec- 
tion of  her  smallest  handicraft,  it  often  strikes  r. 


PERPLEXITY.  T6^ 

Mrs.  Glisson,  contrasts  marvellously  with  the 
roughness  of  man's  best  productions.  A  frag- 
ment of  Manchester  piece-goods  under  the  micro- 
scope, for  example " 

The  Bishop  turned  upon  him  suddenly.  "  It , 
is  the  imperfection  of  nature  that  oftener  puz- 
zles me"  he  said  with  a  real  sense  of  mystery. 
"  Her  cruelty,  her  tyranny,  her  armed  emphatic 
lawlessness.  Look  at  that  fly  in  the  twilight — 
joyous,  airy,  unconscious  of  fate:  and,  swoop,  it 
has  disappeared  into  the  gaping  beak  of  a  swift. 
A  little  thing,  you  say.  Yes,  but  why  should  it 
suffer  at  all?  The  origin  of  evil  has  troubled  the 
theologians:  it  is  the  origin  of  suffering  that 
troubles  me.  How  can  a  beneficent  and  om- 
nipotent Being  permit,  even  for  a  time,  this  reign 
of  pain,  of  physical  agony,  of  mental  torture?  I 
cannot  understand  it — that  what  revolts  man's 
moral  sense  should  be  permitted,  nay  carefully 
provided  for,  by  man's  Maker!  " 

Sir  Edward  looked  up  sharply.  He  was  posi- 
tively shocked.  That  a  bishop  should  permit 
himself  to  think  like  this!  And  that  he  should 
presume  to  see  two  sides  of  a  question!  Sir 
Edward  didn't  like  it:  for  he  had  always  been  a 
fervent  admirer  of  the  commonplace. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

TO    GO    OR    NOT   TO   GO. 

WHEN  the  Bishop  was  left  alone  with  Mr> 
Glisson  that  evening,  the  watchful  wife  saw  at 
once  from  his  face  that  something  had  gone 
wrong  with  him.  She  could  read  his  expression 
like  an  open  book.  '  Well,  Cecil/*  she  asked, 
'  what  wax  this  business  of  Sir  Edward's  that  is 
troubling  you.  darling?  " 

The  Bishop  sighed  deeply  "  I  knew  it  would 
come/'  he  replied  in  a  sad  slow  voice.  "  Sooner 
or  later,  I  knew  it  would  come.  They  have  writ- 
ten more  than  once;  and  as  I  refuse  by  letter. 
they've  now  sent  clown  a  personal  ambassador  to 
speak  to  n 

Who  have  sent?"  Mrs.  Glisson  asked. 

The  Bishop  paused  again  for  a  second.  Then 
he  jerked  it  out  with  a  wrench.  "  Why.  the 
I  .i  ver;  x  M  A  ( >i  |  >hanage.  They  want  me  to  go  down 
and  open  a  new  school  for  them." 

"  Well/1     Mrs.     Glisson     answered     quietly. 
•'  Why  don't  you  say  ycsf  " 
164 


TO   GO   OR   NOT   TO   GO.  16$ 

The  Bishop  gave  a  hasty  gesture  of  dislike 
and  despair  with  one  hand.  "  If  you  knew  how 
I  hate  that  place,  Olive!  I  can't  bear  to  go 
near  it." 

"  I  know  that,  Cecil.  And  though  I  can 
never  imagine  why,  I  won't  bother  you  any  more 
to  tell  me  the  reason.  You  feel  it:  that  is  enough 
for  me.  Still,  couldn't  you  make  the  effort — 
just  this  once?  Perhaps  if  you  went  there  you 
would  find  it  wasn't  as  bad  after  all  as  you  ex- 
pected. Do  try,  for  my  sake,  Cecil."  And  her 
hand  sought  his  soothingly. 

"  Olive,  when  you  talk  like  that,  you  don't 
know  how  you  lacerate  me!  I  can't  bear  not  to 
do  what  you  ask  me  in  this  way.  And  yet — I 
can't  go.  You  haven't  a  notion  how  I  shrink 
from  it." 

"I  have,  darling;  I  see  it:  but  I  feel  you 
ought.  Cecil,  I  don't  like  even  to  hint  such  a 
thing  to  you,  it  is  so  wholly  different  from  your 
real  character;  but  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  if 
you  persistently  stop  away,  people  will  imagine 
you're  ashamed  of  having  been  brought  up  at 
an  orphanage?  /  know,  of  course,  that  such  an 
idea  could  never  enter  your  dear  head;  but  the 
world  doesn't  know  it,  and  it  will  think  you  snob- 
bish." 

The   Bishop   snapped   one   hand   impatiently 


j66  'I' HE    IN'CIDI  NTAL    BISHOP. 

again.  "  The  world,  the  world!"  he  said  with 
an  unwonted  touch  of  irony  in  his  t«  ;  he 

dear,  good  world!  For  each  of  us,  some  hundred 
or  so  of  foolish  and  ill-natured  gossips!  Have  I 
ever  minded  the  world?  Do  I  care  what  people 
think?  Have  I  ever  cared  what  people  thought 
about  anything?  Am  I  not  here  to-day  just 
cause  I  have  always  persistently  disregarded  what 
the  foolish  world  cackled,  and  gone  straight  for 
what  I  believed  to  be  right  and  justice?  " 

Yes,   I  know  that,  dear;  nobody  k 
better  than    I   do:    you   fought   for   the   chain- 
makers  against  rank  and  capital,  when  everybody 
said  you  were  ruining  your  prospects;  and  > 
answered:  '  Let  them  be  ruined,  hut  be  just  to 
the  chain-makers'     Nobody  respects  you  for  all 
that  as  I  respect  you.  <le; 

his  hand  in  hers  and  soothed  it  gently;  "this 
case  is  somewhat  different.  It  is  only  a  personal 
repugnance  you  have  to  overcome  here:  and  if 
people  think  you  won't  i;o  1  ><  you  are  too 

proud  to  acknowledge  your  connection  with  the 
itution  that  brought  you  up.  that  will  surely 
tend  to  lessen  your  intluence  for  good  in  the  dio- 
cese and  the  country.  Think  of  all  that,  darling. 
While  you  were  only  a  canon,  I  never  urged 
bard;  but  now  that  you  are  a  bishop,  I  do  think 
you  ought  really  to  make  an  effort  and  go  to 


TO  GO   OR   NOT  TO  GO. 


I67 


them.  The  orphanage  is  naturally  proud  of  hav- 
ing produced  a  bishop;  you  should  let  people 
see  you  are  not  ashamed  to  own  it." 

The  Bishop  folded  his  hands  on  his  apron, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  closed  his  eyes 
wearily.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  not  at  first  that 
the  deception  had  cost  him  dear,  but  at  last.  The 
longer  he  lived,  the  higher  he  rose  in  life,  the 
more  earnestly  he  strove  to  do  such  good  as  he 
could  in  his  false  position,  the  more  terribly  did 
the  dead  past  rise  up  and  accuse  him. 

His  own  innate  truthfulness  and  honesty  were 
his  worst  enemies  now.  A  wickeder  man  would 
have  gone  down  to  the  orphanage  boldly  and 
brazened  it  out  with  lies;  but  the  Bishop  shrank 
from  lies  with  an  honest  shrinking.  It  wasn't 
merely  the  fear  of  detection  that  disturbed  him. 
Who,  after  all  these  years,  was  likely  to  know 
into  what  manner  of  man  the  Cecil  Glisson  of 
the  orphanage  might  by  this  time  have  devel- 
oped? No;  what  he  really  dreaded  was  the  de- 
ception and  the  pretence.  He  could  not  bear 
to  go  down  to  the  place  where  he  had  never 
lived,  and  pretend  to  remember  the  things  he 
had  never  seen.  So  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  murmured  feebly,  once  more:  "  If  you  knew 
how  hateful  it  all  was  to  me,  Olive,  you  would 
never  ask  me." 


i68  THI:  INCH  .  :OP. 

\  <lear;   I  do  know;  and  I  can  1111 

stand  that  in  those  days  the  boys  may  have  been 
roughly  treated;  I  always  see  that  you  have  the 
utmost  repugnance  to  talking  of  your  boyhood 
there;  and  I  feel  sure  it  is  because  you  think  the 
system  then  was  cruel.  But  all  that  must  be 
quite  changed  by  now.  The  world  moves.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  opening  their  new  school 
because  you  believe  the  lads  are  ill-treated  now- 
adays. Sir  Edward  was  talking  to  me  about  that 
matter  just  now,  and  he  says  a  jollier  or  healthier 
set  of  little  fellows  he  never  saw  in  his  life — per- 
fect pictures  of  merry  happy-go-lucky  English 
schoolb. 

The  Bishop  started.  "  Olive,  dearest/'  he 
cried,  "  I  never  once  suggested  that  the  system 
;el.  I  deny  it.  I  disclaim  it.  It  distresses 
me  that  you  should  hint  it.  I — I  never  heard 
one  word  of  complaint  against  the  school  from 
— from  any  boy  who  was  educated  there."  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  recollected  that  the  real 
Cecil  Glisson,  the  Cecil  Glisson  whose  bones  lay 

iching  beneath  the  Pacific  waves,  had  alv 
spoken  in  the  most  affectionate  terms  of  the  or- 
phanage and  its  masters.     "  No,  dearest  one,  it 

i  that.  I  should  feel  it  most  unjust  if  any- 
one carried  away  the  impression  that  I  declined 
to  go  because  I  bore  any  ill-will  to  the  institu- 


TO   GO   OR   NOT   TO   GO. 


169 


tion."  He  felt  he  ought  to  add,  as  Cecil  Glis- 
son:  "On  the  contrary,  I'm  most  grateful  to 
it;"  but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  He 
altered  them  slowly  to:  "  On  the  contrary,  I  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  that  every  boy  who  was 
brought  up  there  has  good  grounds  for  grati- 
tude." 

Mrs.  Glisson  read  in  his  face  the  struggle  and 
the  reservation.  But  she  did  not  pursue  that  part 
of  the  subject.  She  was  content  to  know  that 
some  internal  feeling  made  Cecil  unwilling  to 
talk  freely  with  her  about  his  youth.  So  she 
altered  the  mode  of  attack. 

"  At  any  rate,  dear/'  she  said,  "  you  must 
feel  that  your  stopping  away  now  is  open  to 
misconstruction,  and  that  the  misconstruction 
does  wrong  both  to  the  orphanage  itself  and  to 
your  own  chances  of  usefulness.  People  will  say: 
'  Here  is  Dr.  Glisson,  who  sets  up  to  be  the 
democratic  bishop,  the  people's  bishop,  the  poor 
man's  bishop;  yet  he's  ashamed  to  own  the  or- 
phanage that  bred  him/  And  that  must  do  harm 
in  the  end  to  every  cause  you  have  most  at  heart, 
mustn't  it?" 

The  Bishop  flared  up.  "  Have  I  ever  been 
ashamed  of  anything  like  that?  "  he  asked,  petu- 
lantly. "  You  are  unjust  to  me,  Olive.  Have 
I  not  always  said  I  crept  into  the  church  by  the 


i  ;o 


THl  1OP. 


;illest  of  side  doors,  and  that  I  desire  no  pre- 
tence of  social  distinction.  I  hate  it  when  they 
M\-Lord  me.  Nobody  that  I  know  of  M\- 
Lorded  the  apostles.  But  this  is  quite  different ; 
this  is  a  personal  and  sentimental  objection.  I'll 
give  them  a  subscription,  if  they  wish,  with  all 
my  heart;  but  I  can't  endure  to  go  and  open 
their  school  for  them." 

Mrs.  (ilisson  desisted.  "  Very  well,  dear,"  she 
answered  with  a  disappointed  look.  "  If  you  feel 
it  so  strongly,  it  would  be  wrong  of  me  to 
urge  it." 

Her  face  tressed.     The  Bishop  saw 

it  and  groaned  inwardly.  For  Olive  had  be- 
come to  him  a  perfect  religion.  He  knew  in  his 
heart  that  it  was  she  who  had  made  him;  she 
who  had  developed  whatever  there  was  of  strong 
and  good  within  him:  and  he  hated  to  distress 
her.  "  If  you  look  like  that/'  he  cried.  I  must 
do  violence  to  myself  and  go  down  to  Li\ 
pool." 

11  No,  darling;  you   mustn't    do  it   if  you  do 
it  on  that  ground.    I  couldn't  bear  to  feel  I 
sending  you  anywhere  again >t  your  better  judg- 
ment." 

It's  not  my  better  judgment;  it's  my  feel- 
ings, Oli 

"  Well,  against  your  feelings,  then,  Cecil." 


TO   GO   OR   NOT   TO   GO. 


171 


The  Bishop  paced  the  room,  agitated.  He 
reflected  for  some  minutes.  Then  he  made  up 
his  mind.  "  Perhaps  you're  right,  dear,"  he  said 
slowly,  bending  over  her  and  kissing  her.  "  In- 
deed, when  are  you  not  right?  I  see  abstention 
lays  me  open  to  a^painful  misconception.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  go;  though  few  things  have  cost 
me  such  a  wrench  of  late  years.  .  .  .  It's  a  most 
painful  visit  to  pay.  But,  Olive,  I  will  pay  it. 
You  may  tell  Sir  Edward  to-morrow  morning  I've 
reconsidered  my  determination,  and  will  run 
down  next  week,  if  Providence  permits,  to  open 
the  new  school  at  the  Liverpool  orphanage." 

It  would  cost  him  dear,  but  he  could  not  bear 
to  differ  from  Olive. 


12 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LOVE    UP    TO    DATE. 

NEXT  morning  at  eleven,  a  little  above  Day's 
Lock,  a  tall  young  man  in  a  Canadian  canoe  sat 
paddling  about  disconsolately.  He  had  the  ir- 
resolute, dispirited,  watchful  air  of  one  who  has 
come  to  time  to  an  appointment  and  finds  the 
other  party  to  the  bargain  absent.  His  face  at 
once  betrayed  the  undergraduate.  But  he  was  a 
nice-looking  specimen  of  that  aggressive  class, 
in  an  Oxford  blazer;  and  he  kept  paddling  to 
one  side  of  the  river  and  then  to  the  other, 
glancing  first  at  his  watch  and  then  up  and  down 
stream  with  the  unmistakable  look  of  a  person 
who  says  to  himself:  "  Why  doesn't  she  come? 
I'm  sure  I  made  no  blunder  about  the  hour." 

He  continued  reconnoitring  the  side-streams 
for  several  minutes  together,  and  then,  evidently 
dejected,  ran  himself  into  a  thick  bed  of  iris- 
lea\  he  bank,  and  assumed  an  attitude  of 

profound  melancholy.  Suddenly,  another  canoe 
shot  quick  round  the  corner,  and  a  young  girl 
172 


LOVE    UP   TO    DATE/S^ 


'73 


approached,  paddling  well  and  deftly  with  an 
air  of  assured  mastery  of  the  craft.  She  was  a 
slight,  dark  girl,  with  abundant  black  hair;  not 
exactly  pretty,  but  with  haunting  eyes,  and  a 
wistful  gipsy  air  that  was  better  than  prettiness: 
she  wore  a  loose  pink  blouse  and  a  hat  with  wild 
roses.  The  man's  face  and  attitude  altered  at 
once  as  she  appeared.  In  a  moment,  he  was 
alert,  attentive,  eager,  smiling.  He  paddled  out 
to  meet  her  down  a  backwater  to  which  it  was 
evident  they  were  both  well  accustomed.  The 
girl's  face  w7as  aglow.  They  came  up  with  one 
another  under  shelter  of  a  mass  of  tall  purple 
loose-strife,  which  hid  them  from  observation 
from  the  field  beside  them. 

"  Well,  Alex,  you  thought  I  wras  never  com- 
ing, I  suppose,"  she  broke  out,  drawing  close  to 
him.  "  Now,  don't  look  at  your  watch;  it  was 
all  my  fault.  You  said  half  past  ten.  But  I 
couldn't  get  away  earlier.  It's  just  this  beastly 
bishoping.  A  certain  Sir  Edward  Colbeck,  who 
is  something  or  other  in  iron  or  cotton  down  in 
Warrington  or  elsewhere,  came  to  the  Palace  last 
night  to  persuade  Daddy  he  ought  to  go  some- 
where and  open  something  he  doesn't  want  to 
open — oysters,  or  orphanages,  or  ginger-beer  or 
something;  and  Mums  wras  on  Sir  Edward's  side; 
she's  always  in  favour  of  Daddy  fulfilling  his  duty 


174  Tin  AL  BISHOP. 

in  that  station  of  life,  etc.,  etc.,  as  per  the  Church 
Catechism;  and  Daddy  said  no,  but  Mums  stuck 
to  it  like  a  leech:  and  the  upshot  of  it  is  Daddy's 
going,  of  course;  so  there's  an  end  of  it.  But 
after  breakfast,  Mums  said:  *  Kvelyn,  you  must 
take  Sir  Edward  through  the  grounds; '  and  I 
tried  to  cry  off;  but  Mums  was  Mind  as  a  1 
it's  the  way  of  mothers;  and  I  couldn't  get  a\ 
And  Sir  Edward's  a  bore;  and  he  talked  on  and 
on,  and  made  himself  middle-aged  agreeable. 
And  the  consequence  was,  I  couldn't  give  him 
the  slip  till  just  this  moment;  and  if  Munis  finds 
I've  gone  off  now,  she'll  be  in  a  state  of  mind 
about  it;  because  she  wants  me  to  keep  Sir 
Edward  from  \  _c  Daddy  while  he's  seeing 

these  people  about   the  clergyman  at   Reading 
who  ha>  run  away  from  his  parish.    So  that's  why 
late.     And  you  mustn't  blame  me  for  it.  but 
set  it  down  to  the  bothering  old  diocese." 

Alex  gazed  at  her  admiringly  as  she  turned 
on  him  with  a  defiant  air.     "  I  couldn't  l>lanu 
for  anything,  darling,"  he  >aid;  "and  of  course 
I  see  it   wasn't   y«»ur  fault.     But  I'm  happy  r 

come.     I   was  so  afraid  you  couMif  t 
away  at  all;  and  I'd  taken  a  pony-cart  over  from 
Oxford,  of  course — the  last   time.   I'm  afraid,  for 
I'm  dead  broke  now,  and  can't  afford  any  more 
pony-carts  over  this  term,  let  alimc  the  Schools 


LOVE    UP   TO   DATE. 


175 


beginning  on  Monday.  And  it  would  have  been 
horrid  to  miss  you.'7 

Evelyn  drove  her  canoe  a  little  farther  into 
the  loose-strife.  The  purple  clump  rose  round 
them  like  a  thicket,  screening  them  effectually 
both  from  the  river-side  and  the  shore.  "  Well, 
here  I  am,  at  last/'  she  ans\vered,  with  a  bewitch- 
ing smile,  for  she  zvas  bewitching  when  she  was 
not  provoking.  "  I  managed  to  give  Sir  Edward 
the  slip  while  he  was  talking  to  Mums;  and  off  I 
darted  to  the  canoe,  and  I've  paddled  down  so 
fast  that  I've  no  doubt  by  this  time  I'm  unbe- 
comingly hot;  but — I  dare  say  you'll  excuse  it." 

She  zvas  hot,  but  tempting.  The  undergradu- 
ate drew  his  canoe  quite  close  to  hers,  and  exe- 
cuted a  manoeuvre  which  only  persons  accus- 
tomed to  Canadian  canoes  can  permit  themselves 
with  impunity.  He  leaned  over  the  edge,  caught 
Evelyn  in  his  arms,  and  clasped  her  tight  for  a 
moment.  The  sound  that  followed  is  one  for 
which  typography  has  as  yet  no  symbol.  Evelyn 
flushed  rosy  red  and  recovered  equilibrium  with 
some  little  difficulty.  "  There,  you  wicked  boy," 
she  said,  "you've  nearly  upset  me!"  But  she 
did  not  seem  seriously  displeased  for  all  that, 
nor  did  she  withdraw  her  canoe  with  more  than 
a  formal  protest. 

Alex  Thornbury  stood  off  at  paddle's  length 


j;6  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

and  surveyed  her.    As  she  sat  there,  flushed  with 

itement,  in  the  first  full  flower  of  opening 
womanhood,  she  looked  as  beautiful  as  her  moth- 
er had  looked  thirty  years  before,  but  with  a 
stranger  and  more  elusive  type  of  beauty.  Her 
great  weird  eyes  thrilled  him.  She  had  the  con- 
scious pride  of  youth,  too,  which  sat  on  her  not 
ungracefully;  and  her  air  was  high-bred,  though 
IKT  phrases  were  so  modern  and  sometimes  so 
slangy.  In  one  word,  she  was  the  typical  Ibsen- 

the  high-spirited  over-strung  girl  of  the  later 
nineteenth  century — a  type  which  our  mothers 
would  have  considered  unladylike,  but  which  our 
sons  agree  in  finding  most  pleasantly  piquant. 

You  must  make  the  most  of  me  to  - 
Evey,"  he  said,  with  the  quiet  presunr  an 

assured  lover;  "  for  I  shan't  be  able  to  come  at 
all  next  week.  I  shall  be  in  the  Schools  all  the 
ninations,  don't  you  know;  and  then, 
as  I  shall  be  sitting  over  papers  all  day  long,  from 
nine  to  five,  there  won't  be  a  chance  even  if  I 
walked  over  to  see  you." 

"You  could  come  in  the  evenings,  couldn't 
you?"  Evelyn  asked  in  response,  gazing  eagerly 
and  wistfully. 

Alex  shook  his  head.  "  No,  that  won't 
work.'  he  answered.  "  Out  of  the  Schools  at 

nl  Hall,  and  didn't  get 


LOVE    UP    TO   DATE.  ^7 

any  dinner,  I  couldn't  be  over  here  much  before 
eight  or  nine.  Then  it  would  be  late  for  you 
to  get  out;  and  besides,  I  should  have  to  be  back 
in  college  by  eleven.  I'm  gated  this  term  at 
eleven  you  know,  on  account  of  that  row  about 
the  Tutor's  window.  So  it  wouldn't  be  pos- 
sible." 

Evelyn  pouted  just  enough  to  look  engaging. 
"  What  a  nuisance,"  she  cried.  "  Shall  I  have  to 
go  a  whole  week  without  seeing  you?  " 

"It  is  a  deprivation,  isn't  it?"  Alex  an- 
swered. 

"You  conceited  boy!  You  shouldn't  take 
that  for  granted.  Though  it's  true,  for  all  that:" 
And  she  nodded  at  him  deliciously. 

Alex  coloured  to  the  ears.  "  Oh,  I  didn't 
mean  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  so  coxy  as 
that.  I  meant  for  myself,  darling.  But  there's 
really  no  help  for  it.  Besides,  you  know,  I  ought 
to  do  well  in  the  Schools;  our  future  depends 
upon  it.  Unless  I  get  a  good  class,  there'll  be 
no  chance  of  our  marrying  for  oh,  ever  and  ever 
so  long." 

"  What  has  coming  to  see  me  got  to  do  with 
that?  I  thought  a  woman's  love  was  supposed 
to  be  an  incentive — isn't  that  the  word  they  al- 
ways use  in  novels? — an  incentive  to  a  man  to 
do  his  very_  best  in  everything.*  You' horrid  crea- 


THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

ture — "  but  she  drew  a  little  nearer  again — "  \ 
ought  to  say  that  you  feel  coming  here  inspires 
you;  that  it  stimulates  your  efforts;  that  you'd 
willingly  walk  over  every  night  by  moonlight 
and  see  me  at  all  risks,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
answer  the  questions  ten  times  better  in  the 
morning. — There,  don't  do  that  again;  oh,  Alex. 
take  care;  if  you  pull  me  so  far  I'm  sure  I'll  go 
ovc: 

"  No,  you  won't/'  Alex  answered,  releasing 
her,  after  an  interval  which  I  can  only  represent 
by  a  series  of  full  stops.  "  But  you  know  very 

1  you're  talking  nonsense.  The  driving-power 
of  love  is  as  true  as  gospel;  it's  made  me  read 
this  term  every  minute  of  my  time — when  I 

n't  coming  over  here;  it's  made  me  read  like 
a  steam  engine,  if  steam  engines  do  read:  I  m 
read  before  as  I've  read  since  you've  been  so  s\\ 
to  me.     Still, -the  driving  power  has  its  liir. 

must  be  applied  scientifically.     You  know  as 

1  as  I  do  that  if  I  come  over  and  see  you  every 
night.  I  won't  be  able  to  think  of  a  blessed  thing 
all  next  day  except  how  much  I  love  you.  Now 

no  use  telling  the  examiners  in  Greek  1  < 
ameters,  '  I  love  Evelyn  Glisson;  she's  the  dc 
est,  sweetest,  provokingest  girl  that  ever  \ 

•i.'   They'd  only  remark  in  their  bleak  way  that 
wnMi't  the  piece  set  for  translation  into  tra 


LOVE    UP   TO   DATE.  !79 

senarii — and  that   '  provokingest  '  was  ungram- 
matical — though  it's  true,  for  all  that." 

"  Oh,  Alex,  don't;  you  hurt  my  arm  so!" 
"  Still,  you  must  see  for  yourself  it's  no  good 
trying  that  way.  I've  got  to  go  into  the  Schools 
all  day,  and  read  up  the  subject  for  the  next 
morning  all  night.  That's  the  way  the  driving- 
power  of  love  acts  on  me,  Miss  Glisson.  (I 
call  you  Miss  Glisson  by  way  of  variety.)  It 
makes  me  work  like  a  horse — for  your  sake, 
Evey." 

"  But  Mr.  Beddingley  was  saying  a  man  in 
examination  ought  never  to  read  at  night.  He 
ought  to  throw  it  all  off,  as  soon  as  the  day's 
work  is  over,  and  go  out  on  the  river.  I  call 
that  common  sense.  And  /  should  think  that 
for  throwing  it  all  off  there's  nothing  on  earth 

to  equal " 

"  When  was  Beddingley  over  here?" 
"  Oh,  my,  who's  jealous  now?  Mr.  Bedding- 
ley  was  over  here  yesterday,  sir,  by  Mums's  in- 
vitation. Such  a  good  young  man,  Mr.  Bed- 
dingley! So  very  well  connected!  His  uncle's 
a  judge;  and  haven't  you  observed  that  judges' 
nephews  invariably  marry  into  bishopy  families? 
There,  I've  done  it  again!  Mums  says  I  mustn't 
say  bishopy,  but  episcopal;  you  know,  she  hasn't 
found  out  yet  that  bishops  are  out  of  date:  she 


180  THF  IN 

tells  me  bishof  away  the  A  >rds 

to  that  effect;  is  unbecoming  my  father's  (laugh- 
but,  do  I  look  episcopal?*'     And  to  do  her 
justice,  she  certainly  didn't. 

No;  you  look  a  charming  heathen.     What 
did  Beddingley  want:  " 

"  Me,  I  suppose;  though   I  didn't  ask  him. 
Mums  thinks  I'm  incorrigible;  but  even  /  don't 
say  to  a  young  man  when  he  calls:  '  Pray  what 
have  you  come  for? ' 
I  hate  BeddingU 

'nit's  not  episcopal.  It's  not  even  Chris- 
tian. You  should  love  your  enemies.  And  Mr. 
Beddingley  isn't  an  enemy;  he  says  he's  a  friend 
of  yours.  He's  an  excellent  young  man.  I  know 
that  for  certain,  because  Mums  is  always  tel 
me  so.  ten  times  a  day.  He  will  go  into  the 
church, — the  church  loves  the  middling — and  as 
soon  as  he's  old  enough,  and  in  priest's  orders, 
the  Lord  Chancellor  will  stick  him  into  a  nice 
living.  He  will  deserve  it,  Mr.  Beddingley. 
There's  an  oozing  goodness  about  him  that  sh 
at  a  glance^  he's  cut  out  for  a  parson.  He  will 
marry  a  wife  after  his  own  pattern,  and  become 
tin  of  ten  assorted  offspring,  all  con- 

genially and  stupidly  commonplace.     He  will  in- 
terest   him-elf   in    foreign   missions   and    in 
•men's  rheumatism.     He  will   make  contribu- 


LOVE    UP   TO    DATE.  iSi 

tions  to  theological  literature.  I  hate  such  young 
men.  There!  who  says  I'm  episcopal?" 

"  Oh,  Evey,  if  Mrs.  Glisson  could  hear  you?  " 

"  She  hears  me  often  enough,  dear  old  Mums. 
She  thinks  it's  original  sin  coming  out  in  me. 
Not  that  she  really  minds.  Mums  is  no  more 
bishopy  at  heart  than  Daddy  and  I  are.  And 
Daddy  is  only  an  incidental  Bishop.  But  she 
has  more  sense  of  the  dignity  of  the  episcopal 
position  than  we.  You  see,  she  was  brought  ug 
in  a  clergyman's  family;  while  I  was  brought 
up  in  Daddy's;  and  he's  no  clergyman.  It  did 
him  heaps  of  good  being  among  the  blackfellows 
when  he  was  young — took  a  lot  of  the  starch 
out  of  him." 

Alex  gazed  admiration  again.  "  Do  you 
know,  Evey,"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  her,  "  I 
love  you  for  your  lawlessness.  You're  the  incar- 
nation of  an  age  of  revolt.  I  am  eo  glad  you 
never  went  to  Cambridge.  It  would  have  spoilt 
you  utterly." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  even  Cambridge  would 
have  made  much  out  of  me.  It  would  have  run 
off  me  like  water  off  a  something-or-other's  back. 
A  duck,  is  it?  thank  you.  Resist  the  higher  edu- 
cation, and  it  will  flee  from  you.  When  Daddy 
first  spoke  to  me  about  going  to  Cambridge,  I 
said  '  Get  thee  behind  me,  Girton,'  and  it  gat 


INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

thec   behind  me;  at  least,   that   was   the   last   I 
heard  of  it." 

You  provoking  angel,  I  do  declare,  I  love 

you  more " 

"  Now,  no  Georgey-porgeying!  I  won't  be 
Georgey-porgeyed.  I'm  sure  little  Beddingley 
would  always  Georgey-pori; 

Then  Beddingley  doesn't  interest  you?" 
Silly  boy  to  ask  such  a  thing.  He  disinter- 
ests  me  altogether.  There,  don't  look  so  critical. 
We  say  '  disinterested/  so  I  suppose  we  can  say 
say  '  disinterests  me/  That's  logical,  isn't  it? 
Women  are  always  logical." 

You  wouldn't  like  to  marry  a  parson?" 
"Oh,  my.  what  a  question!  Don't  you  see 
me  doing  it :  Wai  I  cut  out  to  teach  in  a  Sunday 
school  and  to  organise  Dorcas  meetings?  \Vhy. 
Dorcas  herself  died  of  it — bored  to  death.  I 
pect,  and  sorry  enough  to  be  resuscitated  for 
a  second  edition  over  again  of  the  same  sort  of 
clulness.  I  wouldn't  many  a  parson  if  there 
n't  another  man  left  alive  on  earth.  I'd 
sooner  run  away  with — with  a  dentist  or  an  or- 
ganist." 

"  It's   all    very    well    laughing   at    organists, 

but  wha;  :  think  /';;/  to  turn  to  when 

ken   my  degree?     I  shall  probably  be  a 

schoolmaster.     Remember,  we  can't    marry   till 


LOVE    UP   TO   DATE.  183 

I've  got  on  enough  to  ask  a  bishop's  bless- 
ing." 

Evelyn  grew  suddenly  graver.  "  Well,  I  had 
an  idea  the  other  day,"  she  said,  looking  .wise. 
"  If  only  I  dare  tell  Daddy — not  that  I'm  afraid 
of  Iiim,  of  course;  but  there's  Mums  totthink  of. 
It's  this;  they  say  Daddy  is  the  only  bishop  in 
the  whole  batch  whose  recommendation  for  an 
Inspector  of  Schools  is  not  a  positive  disadvantage 
to  a  candidate.  But  Daddy's  such  a  favourite  at 
the  Education  Office,  or  whatever  they  call  the 
place,  that  if  he  recommends  a  man  they  almost 
always  appoint  him.  Now,  my  idea  is  that  after 
you've  taken  your  degree,  I  should  present  you 
to  Daddy  one  day  and  say:  '  Dads,  this  is  the 
man  I'm  going  to  marry;  and  we've  got  nothing 
to  marry  on;  and  we  object  on  principle  to  long 
engagements,  as  wearing  to  the  feelings;  and  we 
want  you  to  get  him  an  Inspector-of-Schoolship.' 
Rather  noble,  isn't  it?" 

"  Intensely  noble,"  Alex  answered  with  alac- 
rity. "  As  noble  as  a  Marquis;  and  Marquises, 
you  know,  are  always  Most  Noble.  In  fact,  an 
idea  worthy  of  your  intelligence,  Evey.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  I  must  get  a  First  for  that;  and 
I'm  so  terribly  weak  in  my  Politics,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Politics?  why,  what  have  politics  got  to  do 
with  it?"  Evelyn  exclaimed,  surprised.  "You 


nil-:  INCIDENT  IGF. 

1't  mean  to  say  they  won't  i;i\ey«>u  a  Fir>t  be- 
cause you're  a  thingumbob,  do  yoi 

Alex  smiled.  "  No,  not  because  I'm  a  thing- 
umbojb,"  he  answered.  "  Thingumbobs,  as  such. 
are  eligible  for  the  highest  offices  in  the  uni- 

-ity,  just  the  same  as  what-you-may-call 
But  I  mean  Aristotle's  Politics,  don't  you  kn< 

one  of  the  books  one  has  to  take  up  for  greats. 
And  I'm  so  beastly  bad  at  it." 

"  Oh.  you'll  pull  through,"  Evelyn  responded, 
with  a  girl's  confidence  in  her  lover's  ability  to 
do  anything  that  is  expected  of  him.  You'll 
get  a  First  all  rijjht.  Mr.  Beddingley  said 
terday:  'There's  no  doubt  about  Thornhury. 
He's  safe  of  h  ;  he's  read  so  hard  since 

Christmas.'     And   I  knew  what  had  made  you; 
so  there,  sir." 

"  But,  Evelyn.  I  say,  that's  a  splendid  idea 
about  the  Inspectorship  of  Schoo 

"  /    said,    Inspector-of-schoolship,    which     I 

aure  to  think  much  more  neat  and  appro- 
priai 

"  So  it  is,  of  course;  it's  the  right  idiom,  ob- 

usly;    only,    idioms    are    generally    made    by 

idiots,  and  when  a  clever  person  like  you  strikes 

out  the  right  one  offhand,  one's  afraid  to  use  it. 

But,   Inspectorship  or  Schoolship,  it's  a  noble 

c  must  work  that,  you  know;  why,  then, 


LOVE    UP   TO   DATE.  185 

we  might  get  married  in  rather  less  than  no 
time!  " 

"Really?" 

"  Yes',  really." 

"  Then,  my  dear  old  boy,  go  in  and  win!  Get 
a  First,  and  it's  done,  as  conjurors  always  tell 
one.  Daddy  and  the  Education  Office  won't 
know  what  it  is  to  have  a  quiet  night  till  they've 
given  you  the  appointment.  I'll  nobble  Sir  Na- 
thaniel: he's  a  dear  old  friend  of  mine.  Church 
schools;  schedule  C;  oh,  I  know  all  about  it; 
I've  been  looking  it  up  to-day  in  Daddy's  School 
Manager's  Assistant,  a  Complete  Digest  of  the 
Education  Act  and  the  Revised  Code,  for  the 
Use  of  the  Unmitigated  Old  Bores  who  sit  upon 
the  Committees.  I  dare  say  I  haven't  got  the 
title  '  with  textual  accuracy,'  as  Daddy  would 
say;  but  it's  near  enough  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses." And  she  looked  up  at  him  saucily. 

She  had  taken  off  her  hat.  He  ran  his  hand 
through  her  hair.  "  I  love  you,  Evey,"  he  said. 
"  I  wonder  why  I  love  you!  " 

She  laughed  a  pleased  laugh.  "  Interrogate 
your  consciousness!" 

He  paused  and  reflected.  "  I  think,"  he  said, 
"it  is,  because  you're  a  double  acrostic." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    EPISCOPATE    STOOPS. 

THE  episode  of  the  opening  was  fixed  to  take 
place  on  the  following  Tuesday.  By  Thursday 
of  the  week  before  the  date  arranged  for  it.  the 
poor  harassed  Bishop,  turning  things  over  in  his 
mind,  this  way  and  that,  arrived  all  at  once  at 
notable  resolution.  It  was  clear  he  could  not 
go  down  to  the  orphanage  where  according  to 
the  authorities  he  had  been  bred  and  taught, 
without  the  slightest  idea  what  manner  of  place 
it  was.  He  must  sally  forth  on  an  exploring  » 
pedition  to  Liverpool,  incog.,  before  trusting 
himself  to  make  a  speech  of  effusive  gratitude 
and  misplaced  humility  at  the  opening  of  the  new 
school  where  he  had  never  been  educat 

But  what  a  sordid,  what  a  hateful,  what  an 
undignified  necessity — a  necessity  that  revolted 
all  the  manhood  within  him;  for  whatever  else 
he  was,  the  man  who  had  once  been  Tom  Prin- 
gle  remained  a  man  to  the  end,  in  spite  of  his 
apron.  He  had  preached  down  coal-mines,  and 

1 86 


THE   EPISCOPATE   STOOPS.  1 87 

chummed  with  chain-makers,  and  helped  pud- 
dlers  at  their  work,  and  fought  drunken  navvies, 
and  shown  himself  in  fifty  unconventional  ways 
a  muscular  Christian.  But  this  surreptitious 
creeping  about  in  disguise,  like  a  thief  or  a  de- 
tective, was  wholly  repugnant  to  him.  Still,  he 
had  made  his  bed  and  he  must  lie  on  it.  Or 
rather,  as  he  said  bitterly  to  himself  more  than 
once,  a  chance  moment  had  made  it,  and  a  life- 
time must  lie  on  it. 

He  opened  the  study  door  with  a  consciously 
furtive  air,  ill-disguised  under  a  pretence  of  trans- 
parent candour,  for  he  was  a  mighty  poor  dis- 
sembler. "  Watkins,"  he  said  to  his  servant,  in 
the  most  casual  voice  he  could  summon,  "  do 
you  happen  to  have  kept  that  old  suit  I  used  to 
wear  at  Cradley  for  visiting  the  chain-works?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord;  it's  in  the  box-room." 
'  Then  bring  it  out,  Watkins,  and  pack  it  in 
my  Gladstone  bag."  His  look  was  guilty.  "  I'm 
going  down — to  Birmingham."  Birmingham 
was  on  the  way,  and  he  must  change  there  to  get 
on  the  North  Western  for  Liverpool.  He  salved 
his  conscience  as  usual  with  one  of  the  verbal 
subterfuges  he  despised  and  hated. 

'  Yes,  my  lord.     And  what  else  shall  I  put 
in?" 

The  Bishop  paused.     "  The  usual  things  for 
13 


188  THE    INCIDENTAL    IU>HOP. 

one  night/*  he  answered,   hesitating.     "  And  a 
coloured  tie,  if  I   have  any.      Xo.   no;  I   shan't 
want  one/'  he  continued,  reflecting  after  a  mo- 
ment that  it  was  safer  to  buy  one  than  to  i; 
himself  away  to  his  own  man-servant.     "  Just  the 
Cradley  suit  and  the  usual  night  things,   \\ 
kins." 

Yes,  my  lord/'  Watkins  answered  stolidly. 
He  was  too  much  accustomed  to  the  eccentrici- 
ties of  "  the  slumming  bishop,"  as  his  clergy 
called  him,  to  feel  or  express  much  astonishment 
at  these  episcopal  vagaries. 

"  And  Watkins,  tell  Rees  I  shall  want  to  be 
driven  to  the  station  to  catch  the  11.30.  And 
when  Mrs.  Glisson  comes  home,  say  I  was  sud- 
denly called  away  on  pressing  business  connected 
with  this  forged  orders  question."  That  was, 

s,  too  true.    He  need  not  tell  a  lie  this  t 
though  the  case  of  forged  orders  which  called 
him  away  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  clergyman 
at  Reading." 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  Watkins  answered  in  the 
same  impassive  voice — the  colourless  voice  of  the 
trained  man-servant  who  would  answer  "  x, 
my  lord."  if  you  told  him  the  moon  was  made  of 
green  cheese  or  commanded  him  to  cut  off  the 
head  of  liU  grandmother. 

With  infinite  loathing,  the  Bishop  took  the 


THE   EPISCOPATE    STOOPS. 


189 


next  train  to  Birmingham.  On  his  way  thence 
to  Liverpool,  he  managed  to  secure  a  solitary  first 
class  compartment;  and  during  the  longest  un- 
broken run,  changed  his  clothes  in  the  carriage  in 
terror,  reappearing  with  a  very  workmanlike  suit 
in  place  of  his  gaiters,  and  substituting  a  crush 
.felt  hat  for  his  episcopal  head-gear. 

Arrived  at  Lime  Street  Station,  he  felt  his 
difficulties  thicken  round  him.  It  would  be  dan- 
gerous to  proceed  too  openly  to  the  orphanage, 
for  if  he  let  himself  be  seen,  he  might  be  recog- 
nised again  in  his  episcopal  dress  on  Tuesday. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  would  not  do  to  skulk 
about  too  clandestinely  with  the  air  of  one  who 
would  escape  observation,  and  so  run  the  risk  of 
being  apprehended  by  the  police  in  his  present 
masquerade  on  a  charge  of  loitering  with  intent 
to  commit  a  burglary.  He  split  the  difference; 
drove  to  a  third-rate  hotel,  instead  of  the  one  he 
meant  to  patronise  on  Tuesday;  and  then  lounged 
quietly  round,  with  the  aid  of  a  map,  to  the  place 
where  the  orphanage  was  marked  as  existing. 

It  would  have  been  a  disagreeable  task  for 
anybody;  for  a  bishop,  it  was  insupportable.  In 
his  working-man  suit,  he  felt  like  a  mountebank. 
The  sense  of  skulking  about  those  buildings  in 
order  to  assume  a  familiarity  with  them  which 
he  did  not  really  possess,  was  almost  more  than 


K,O  'nil:    INCIDENTAL   UI.MIOP. 

his  honest  heart  could  endure.  For  after  all, 
his  heart  was  still  honest.  He  was  a  truthful 
man,  utterly  warped  and  turned  aside  from 

n  proper  nature  by  one  lasting  error.  1 1  e 
hoped,  indeed,  to  avoid  a  lie  direct,  which 
soul  hated;  but  he  hardly  saw  how  he  could  suc- 
ceed in  avoiding  a  certain  amount  of  prevarica- 
tion. "  Ah,  here's  the  old  school-room,"  he  must 
say,  with  a  tone  of  conviction  and  of  ancient  ac- 
quaintance; "and  here's  the  dormitory.  This  is 
where  the  boys  used  to  play  rounders  on  half 
holidays;  and  that's  the  window  erected  in  mem- 
ory of  the  three  poor  fellc  re  killed  in 
the  Crimea."  All  these  details  he  must  get  up 
beforehand  as  far  as  possible;  and  to  get  them 
up  he  had  but  his  unaided  intelligence.  To  ask 
questions,  he  felt,  would  be  absolutely  fatal.  The 
town  hummed  with  affairs,  but  the  Bishop  dis- 
regarded them.  He  made  his  way  straight  to 
a  straggling  suburb. 

He  found  the  building,  a  gaunt  brick  block 
upon  a  windy  hill-top,  standing  a  mile  or  t 
from  the  centre,  in  a  forbidding  garden,  with  the 

;al  desolate  air  of  a  great  British  charity.     Its 
mien  ami  aspect  were  strictly  utilitarian.     The 
gates  stood  open,  thank  heaven,  and  he  wall, 
in.   unchallrr.-cd.      As   always   happens  on  such 
occasions — 'tis   a    human    peculiarity — tin- 


THE    EPISCOPATE    STOOPS.  igr 

was  behindhand,  and  all  hands  were  impressed 
into  the  service  making  diligent  efforts  to  get 
the  building  ship-shape  for  the  date  of  the  open- 
ing. It  is  the  humour  of  contractors  to  put  off 
everything  till  the  last  moment.  Accustomed 
as  he  was  to  see  his  own  name  and  office  pla- 
carded, it  still  gave  him  a  strange  start  to-day  to 
read  the  notices  on  the  gate,  in  large  red  type, 
"  The  New  School  House  will  be  opened  on 
Tuesday,  June  the  27th,  by  the  Right  Reverend 
the  Lord  Bishop  of  Dorchester."  He  feared  to 
enter.  If  anybody  were  to  see  him  now  and  then 
recognise  him  next  week,  what  an  appalling  dis- 
closure ! 

However,  whatever  else  the  Bishop  was,  he 
was  a  brave  man,  and  he  pushed  his  way  in  boldly. 
It  was  not  his  habit  to  quail  or  whimper.  He 
walked  round  the  building  with  a  certain  assured 
air  in  his  upright  carriage  which  secured  him 
from  enquiry.  Even  at  the  worst  of  times  the 
Bishop  respected  himself.  This  was  the  old 
school-room,  then;  not  a  doubt  about  that;  he 
could  hear  the  hum  and  buzz  of  voices  inside, 
the  unmistakable  drone  of  boys  repeating  rote- 
lessons.  He  measured  it  with  the  eye,  length, 
breadth,  and  height,  and  observed  its  relation 
to  the  surrounding  buildings.  Then  he  scanned 
the  bricks  curiously.  Yes,  he  should  say  from 


1 92 


the  colour  they  inu-t  h:  n  laid  for  more  than 

thirty  years;  probably  forty;  so  that  the  room 
must  have  been  there  in  the  other  Cecil  Gliss< 
time;  for  since  Cecil  Glisson  had  been  his  own 
name  now  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
he  had  grown  to  regard  its  original  owner  as 
merely  "  the  other  one." 

Was  he  right  in  judging  that  this  school-room 
l  so  old,  though?    Liverpool  is  a  smoky  place, 
and  brick  would  discolour  there  quickly.     These 
walls  were  certainly  newer  than  those  just  to  the 
right  of  them;  not  quite  so  new  as  those  to  the 
left  beyond.     A  mistake  on  this  matter  would 
not    indeed  quite  conclusive,  for  so  many 
ad  passed  since, — but,  to  say  the  least  of 
it.   suspicious.     The   Bishop  recalled    the   blun- 
ders of  the  Tichborne  claimant.    He  looked  care- 
fully from  this  point  of  view  at  every  part  of  the 
building,  except  that  now  in  progress.    The  i 

itcntionally  out  of  consideration, 
so  that  they  mii^ht  strike  him  with  as  much  un- 
familiarity  by  comparison  as  possible. 

Presently,  he  drew  near  the  workmen's  chief 
hut.  The  clerk  of  the  works  was  there,  holding 
a  plan  in  his  hand.  The  Bishop  approached  him 
and  murmured  in  his  suave  episcopal  manner: 
"  Mi-ht  1  l>e  permitted  to  glance  at  it?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir."  the  clerk  d;  and  that 


THE   EPISCOPATE   STOOPS. 


193 


sir  struck  cold  into  the  Bishop's  heart;  he  had 
expected  rather  to  be  addressed  as  mate,  for  he 
was  clad  as  a  working  man  on  the  borderland  of 
the  class — a  foreman  or  its  equivalent — and  he 
was  dimly  aware  that  his  voice  had  bewrayed 
him.  "  Thank  you  so  much,"  he  continued,  try- 
ing his  hardest  to  be  gruff;  but  it  was  all  in  vain; 
for  even  Tom  Pringle  had  had  a  soft  and  pecul- 
iarly gentle  manner  of  speech,  which  was  one 
of  the  first  points  Olive  had  noted  and  admired 
in  him.  And  now  that  he  was  a  bishop,  his  tones 
had  the  correct  episcopal  silveriness. 

The  clerk  of  the  works  pointed  out  some  of 
the  details.  The  Bishop  pretended  to  look  and 
listen;  but  his  eyes  were  really  elsewhere  on  other 
parts  of  the  plan.  For  as  good  luck  would  have 
it,  this  was  a  small-scale  elevation  of  the  entire 
buildings,  old  and  new,  with  their  junctions  of 
passages.  More  still,  it  had  in  its  corner  a  ground 
plan  of  the  orphanage,  marking  in  red,  blue,  and 
black  figures  the  dates  of  the  various  successive 
layers,  so  to  speak.  The  Bishop  glanced  at  these 
hastily,  and  took  them  in  at  a  glance.  Necessity 
is  the  mother  of  memory  as  well  as  of  invention. 
He  never  knew  before  how  well  he  could  take  in 
and  carry  away  a  plan;  in  two  minutes,  he  had 
committed  the  whole  thing  to  the  tablets  of  his 
brain,  and  was  prepared  to  recognise  every  part 


Till  ;    I-1IOP. 

or  not,  exactly  in  pro;  as  it  ai  or 

post-dated  the  real  Cecil  Glisson's  sojourn  in  the 
institution. 

"  Thank  you  immensely/'  he  said  with  a  genu- 
ine sigh  of  relief  to  the  clerk;  for  he  had  learnt 
from  this  chart  by  how  little  he  had  avoided  one 
tremendous  pitfall;  the  dubious  school-room  had 
not  been  there  in  Cecil  Glisson's  day  at  all;  it 

^  the  middle  one  in  time  of  three  success 
buildings;  and  it   was  begun  in   the  year  alter 
Cecil  Glisson  went  to  the  Theological  College. 
Thank  heaven,  that  particular  Theological  Col- 
lege had  wholly  failed  in  the  struggle  for  < 
istence  between  seminaries  of  budding  parsons, 
and  was  now  a  retreat  for  decayed  licen- 
t nailer-;  and  therefore  he  would  never  be  called 
upon  to  gush  over  an  apocryphal  stay  in  that 
building,  at  any  rate! 

So  he  said,  "  Thank  you  immensely,"  with  a 
real  touch  of  gratitude. 

"  Not  at  all.  sir/'  the  clerk  answered,  staring 
hard  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  beginning  to 
wonder  whether  or  not  this  smooth-voiced 
stranger  was  a  gentlemanly  burglar  or  a  swell- 
mob  pickpocket. 

The  Bishop  ventured  on  a  question.  "  Shall 
you  be  here  on  Tuesday?  "  he  asked  nervously 
after  a  moment's  hesitation. 


THE    EPISCOPATE    STOOPS. 


'95 


The  clerk  stared  again  and  hesitated  in  turn. 
"  Not  inside,"  he  answered.  That  was  a  relief, 
anyhow.  Yet  the  Bishop  began  to  wonder 
whether  it  would  not  be  well  for  him  to  contract 
a  sudden  indisposition  and  telegraph  regrets  at 
the  last  moment  to  the  committee.  For  the 
clerk  had  taken  stock  of  him  with  a  most  sus- 
picious scrutiny. 

He  returned  to  his  shabby  hotel  not  a  little 
perturbed  in  soul.  He  was  not  quite  sure  that 
this  unpleasant  visit  had  not  rather  increased  than 
lessened  his  difficulties. 


OF  THB 

TJNIVERSITY 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    LION'S    MOUTH. 

WORRY  kills.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  through 
fatigue  and  worry,  the  Bishop  was  very  far  in- 
deed from  being  well  on  the  succeeding  Monday. 
His  head  swam  ominously. 

"Olive,  dear/'  he  said  to  his  wife  \\hen  he 
got  up  in  the  morning,  "  I'm  really  afraid,  after 
all,  I  shall  have  to  telegraph  and  disappoint  those 
erpool  people.  I  feel  really  ill,  more  than  a 
passing  headache.  I  don't  believe  I  shall  be  up 
tor 

\Vell,  of  course,  dear,  if  you're  unable  to  go, 
i  mustn't  go,"  Mrs.  Glisson  answered,  with  a 
luminous  platitude.    "  But  at  least  we  might  set 
out  and  get  as  far  as  Liverpool.    Then  you  could 
see  how  you  are  to-morrow.     We  can  sleep  to- 
lit  at  the  Adelphi;  the  Adelphi's  so  comfort- 
able: and  if  you're  no  better  in  the  morning, 
ran  write  and  explain.     Still,  your  little  ailment 
will   probably   pass   off:  you   know   your  head   is 
almost  always  better  for  the  change  of  a  journ< 
196 


THE    LION'S    MOUTH.  197 

The  Bishop  groaned;  but  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  obey.  He  was  an  obedient  husband. 
He  went  to  Liverpool,  and,  strange  to  say,  felt 
better  next  morning,  with  the  usual  incredible 
incalculability  of  nervous  troubles.  And  when 
the  dreaded  hour  arrived,  he  opened  the  new 
school  with  great  solemnity  and  dignity.  For- 
tunately, he  had  little  to  say  about  the  institu- 
tion, himself,  or  his  own  supposed  connection 
with  it.  The  Mayor  and  the  others  did  that  part 
of  the  speechifying:  they  dilated  on  the  pleasure 
it  gave  them  to  see  that  a  Spiritual  Peer  in  Dr. 
Glisson's  exalted  position  had  come  originally 
from  their  own  institution;  they  enlarged  upon 
the  fact  that  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Dorchester,  in 
all  his  glory,  was  not  ashamed  now  to  own  his 
indebtedness  to  their  Orphan's  Home;  and  they 
pointed  the  usual  fallacious  moral  that  every  boy 
there  present  that  day  had  it  open  to  him  to  pur- 
sue a  similar  career  of  usefulness  which  might 
lead  him  at  last,  if  not  to  so  conspicuous  and 
honoured  a  position,  at  least  to  high  posts  in 
the  Church  and  Commonwealth.  It  is  annoy- 
ing to  any  man  to  have  to  sit  still  and  hear  him- 
self thus  publicly  belauded;  to  the  Bishop,  under 
the  circumstances,  it  was  an  unspeakable  ordeal. 
Every  now  and  again  he  caught  Olive's  eye  and 
gave  a  profound  sigh  of  impatient  resignation. 


1 98 


Till 


Olive  encouraged   him   silently.      Without    that 
wifely  aid.  he  almost  believed  he  must  h:r 
in  his  place  and  protested  openly. 

For  himself,  when  it  came  to  his  turn,  the 
Bishop  did  little  more  than  briefly  allude  to  the 
much  too  kind  and  flattering  things  which  the 
Mayor  had  said  about  him;  and  then  passed  on 
to  a  short  and  obviously  heart-felt  phrase  about 
his  ceeding  unworthiness.  That  was  one 

of  the  little  traits  that  had  made  Dr.  Glisson  the 
most  popular  of  bishops;  his  real  modesty  was 
undeniable;  consciousness  of  his  false  claim  sa 
him  at  every  turn  from  the  besetting  episcopal 

of  self-complacency.     To  the  orphanage  he 
referred  in  safe  generalities  only;  it  was  his  sU 
iding  direct  falsehood. 

He  said,  with  his  silvery  intonation,  that  e\ 
boy  who  had  been  educated  in  that  Home  mu»t 
always  look  back  to  his  sojourn  there  with  pleas- 
ure and  gratitude.  If  any  inmate  who  owed  his 
career  of  usefulness  to  the  Institution  win-re  they 
assembled  was  ashamed  in  after  life 
of  the  sheltering  school  which  had  made  him 
what  he  was.  that  inmate  showed  a  mean  and 
contemptible  spirit.  Lads  educated  under  this 
roof  had  recalled  their  boyhood  with  pride  and 
delight  beneath  the  -plendours  of  : 

Southern  Cross  and  amoni;  iving  palms  and 


THE    LION'S    MOUTH. 


199 


tree-ferns  of  the  Pacific.  (For  he  remembered 
what  the  real  Cecil  Glisson  had  told  him.)  No 
tie  save  the  tie  of  parent  and  child  could  be 
closer  than  the  link  which  bound  the  pupils  of 
that  school  in  almost  filial  piety  to  the  Home 
that  had  proved  itself  a  father  to  the  fatherless. 
And  never  in  a  long  life  had  he  felt  more  pro- 
foundly thankful  to  have  discharged  the  part  he 
had  been  called  upon  to  play  than  he  should 
feel  that  night  when  he  returned  once  more  with 
the  memory  of  this  duty  fulfilled  to  his  home  at 
Dorchester.  He  added  a  few  general  moral 
and  religious  platitudes — the  inevitable  stock- 
in-trade  of  an  episcopal  orator  :  and  then, 
amid  much  applause,  and  with  the  usual  cere- 
monies, he  solemnly  declared  this  institution 
open. 

He  did  not,  however,  return  that  night  to 
Dorchester  Palace.  Mrs.  Glisson  was  so  much 
alarmed  at  the  strain  he  had  obviously  endured 
that  she  would  not  allow  him  to  try  the  journey 
back  after  the  fatigue  of  the  ceremony  and  the 
accompanying  banquet.  They  remained  at  the 
Adelphi,  for  the  Bishop  would  never  consent  on 
such  occasions  to  accept  private  hospitality.  In- 
deed, the  watchful  wife  began  to  fear  she  had 
done  wrong  in  urging  him  to  come  at  all;  what- 
ever was  the  reason,  she  said  to  herself,  it  was 


200  TH1  iOP. 

perfectly  clear  that  Cecil  could  not  bear  to  re- 
turn to  Liverpool. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  they  went  into 
the  comfortable  drawing-room  of  the  hotel;  Mrs. 
Glisson  fancied  it  might  cheer  Cecil  up  to  li 
a  little  distracting   talk   with   the   strangers   he 
met  there.    An  American  liner  had  arrived  that 
day;  and  among  the  guests  were  not  a  few  of 
her  passengers.    The  Bishop  sat  on  a  sofa  t  r  \ 
to  make  conversation  with  one  or  two  of  these. 
Both    parties,    however,    were    distraught;    the 
Bishop,  by  the  events  of  that  day  of  Purgatc 
the  Americans,  by  the  novelty  of  the  episcopal 
gaiters,  and  the  strange  apparition  of  the  episco- 
pal apron,  both  which  they  surveyed  with  i: 
sistible  amusement. 

At  last,  one  stranger  strolled  up  and  sat  close 
by  the  Bishop.     He  was  a  solid-looking  ruddy- 
haired  man,  with  a  farmer- like  air.  and  when  he 
spoke,  the  Bishop  recognised  at  once  the  familiar 
Canadian  accent  of  his  boyhood.     He  had  In 
it  twice  or  thrice  during  the  intervening  ye; 
nay,    more,    he    had    even    passed    unrecognised 
among  people  whose  names  at  least  he  had  known 
at  Brantford.     But  to-ni^ht.  the  coincidence  v 
particularly   distasteful    to   him.      He   was    i 
about  to  say:  "Olive,  my  dear,  I  think  I  shall 
go  upstairs."  \\hen  the  new-comer  leaned  across 


THE    LION'S   MOUTH.  2OI 

and  began  conversation  abruptly:  "  The  Bishop 
of  Dorchester,  they  tell  me?  " 

The  episcopal  neck  gave  a  faint  inclination  of 
assent. 

"  Well,  you  were  Dr.  Cecil  Glisson,  before  you 
were  made  a  bishop,  I  fancy/'  the  stranger  con- 
tinued. 

»  Something  vaguely  familiar  about  the  voice 
and  face  made  the  Bishop  falter.  "  I  was/'  he 
answered  tremulously. 

"  Then  you  must  have  met  my  poor  cousin 
Tom  Pringle,"  the  Canadian  went  on,  uncon- 
scious of  the  bomb-shell  he  was  so  carelessly  let- 
ting drop:  "he  sailed  on  the  John  Wesley." 

The  room  swam  round  the  Bishop.  He  grew 
white  and  red  alternately.  Olive  came  to  the 
rescue  at  the  very  nick  of  time.  "  It  was  a  most 
painful  episode  in  my  husband's  life,"  she  put  in 
softly.  "  The  memory  of  it  never  ceases  to  dis- 
turb him  to  this  present  day.  It  almost  killed 
him.  You  know  he  was  shot  by  the  captain  of 
the  John  Wesley;  and  he  had  been  tenderly 
nursed,  before  the  explosion,  by  your  cousin,  Tom 
Pringle." 

"  Oh,  I  know  about  all  that,"  Hiram  Pringle 
answered — for  the  Bishop  now  recognised  his 
cousin  after  thirty-five  years  of  absence.  "  I 
made  lots  of  inquiries  about  poor  Tom  in  Aus- 


202  TH1  (OP. 

ia.     He  was  blown  up  in  the  explosion,  the 

same  time  that  you  were.     Only,  he  didn't  come 

to  again.     Well,  Bishop,  any  way,  I'm  glad  to 

meet  you."    He  used  the  familiar  Canadian  mode 

address  which  was  the  only  one  he  knew.     "  I 

13  fond  of  Tom,  and  I  should  like  to  hear  from 

i  anything  you  can  tell  me  about  the  poor 
fellow's  last  voyage." 

What  was  the  Bishop  to  do?  Under  t 
trying  circumstances,  he  could  not  seem  cold 
and  cruel  toward  the  dead  sailor  who  was  sup- 
posed to  have  tended  him  carefully  through  a 
severe  illness  and  probably  to  have  died  through 
his  devotion  to  duty  and  his  unwillingness  to 
join  Bully  Ford  and  his  comrades.  In  five  min- 
utes he  found  himself  launching  forth  on  a  touch- 
ing tribute  to  his  own  dead  self;  extolling 
own  tenderness,  his  care,  his  womanly  nursing; 
making  a  hero  and  a  martyr  out  of  the  very  Tom 
Pi-ingle  who  sat  there  that  moment  in  a  falsely- 
ned  episcopal  garb,  hating  himself  inwardly 
couanlice  and  deception.  Tom  Prin- 
gle — why  the  Tom  Pringle  who  signed  articles 
on  the  John  \\  a  moral  innocent  com- 

pared with  the  black  heart  of  the  Cecil  Glisson 
who  •  .re  his  b« 

The  ruddy-haired   man  listened   to  him   with 
real  emotion.    "  Poor  old  Tom,"  he  mused,  with 


THE    LION'S    MOUTH.  203 

tears  in  his  eyes,  in  spite  of  all  the  years;  "  he 
was  a  real  good  sort.  Many's  the  time  he  and  I 
played  truant  from  school  to  go  fishing  for  black 
bass  and  hunting  mink  in  the  creek — the  creek 
down  by  Brantford — let  me  see,  what  did  we 
call  it?" 

It  was  on  the  Bishop's  tongue  to  answer 
"  Little  Cataraqui  Creek,"  but  he  pulled  himself 
up  in  time,  and  held  a  prudent  silence. 

"  And  you  have  prospered  in  this  world,  I 
suppose,"  he  ventured  to  say  at  last,  in  his  bland 
clerical  voice,  seeing  that  Hiram  had  the  air  of 
a  man  of  money. 

"Oh,  pretty  well,"  his  cousin  answered; 
"pretty  well:  I've  made  my  pile:  though  you 
mustn't  think,  either,  my  cousin  Tom  was  no 
more  than  a  common  seaman  by  birth  because 
he  was  sailing  as  one  when  you  happened  to  meet 
him.  Tom  was  a  better  scholar  than  me,  and 
a  good-looking  fellow,  too:  he  might  have  been 
a  gentleman  if  he  hadn't  chosen  to  run  away 
to  sea  like  a  foolish  young  donkey.  He  had 
plenty  of  brains,  Tom  had.  Yes,  I've  done  pretty 
well  for  myself;  gone  into  the  lumber  trade 
on  the  Upper  Ottawa,  and  got  tolerable 
concessions.  I  don't  want  to  boast,  but  I 
ought  to  be  worth  to-day,  say  my  million  dol- 
lars." 

14 


204  IH:  :op- 

Two  hundred  thousand  pounds!  "  the  Bish- 
op echoed,  with  perhaps  more  alacrity  than 
to  be  expected  from  a  man  who  ought  by  his 
own  account  never  to  have  set  foot  on  the  Ameri- 
can continent.  "  That's  a  very  large  fortune. 
Well,  perhaps  your  cousin  Tom,  if  he  had  stopped 
in  Canada,  might  have  done  as  well  in  the  end. 
There's  no  accounting  for  the  wonderful  dis- 
pensations of  Providence." 

"Though,  mind  you,"  Hiram  interpo-r  !.  1 
think  so  well  of  Tom  that  I  wouldn't  think  bet- 
ter of  him  not  if  he  was  wearing  that  pair  of 
gaiters  you  have  on  this  minute." 

The  Bishop  reddened  again;  but  fortunately 
Olive  set  his  confusion  down  to  what  she  con- 
sidered an  unsuitable  allusion  to  the  episcopal 
leggings. 

Hiram  scanned  him  from  head  to  foot,  with 
a  slow  long  stare.  "  You're  not  unlike  him 
cither,"  he  said.  Then  for  a  second  a  queer 
feeling  came  over  him.  He  was  just  about  to 
,i'ld  slowly:  "Why — you — are  Tom  Pringle  " 
— when  the  absurdity  of  the  identification 
burst  upon  him  all  at  once,  and  he  conteir 
himself  with  saying  :  4i  You  might  be  his 
brother 

The  Bishop  marked  the  look  and  the  1 
tating  manner.     He  dared  not  risk  it  any  longer. 


THE    LION'S    MOUTH. 


205 


"  We  were  considered  like  one  another  on  the 
John  Wesley,"  he  admitted  stiffly.  Then  he  rose 
and  shook,his  cousin's  hand.  "  Well,  good  night, 
Mr.  Pringle,"  he  went  on,  as  cordially  as  he 
could  manage.  "  I — I  am  glad  to  have  met 
you."  Oh,  appalling  falsehood!  "I  cannot  fail 
to  cherish  the  most  friendly  feelings  towards  any 
relation  or  friend  of  poor  Tom  Pringle,  whom 
I  remember  with  affection  and  gratitude  and — 
and — Olive,  my  dear,  give  me  your  arm.  I — I 
feel  far  from  well.  Mr  Pringle  must  excuse  me. 
And  the  sun  was  so  hot!  This  day  has  been  too 
much  for  me!  " 

Olive  helped  him  to  his  room.  He  waved 
his  hand  to  Hiram.  Once  safely  upstairs,  he 
broke  down  utterly.  He  sat  on  the  side  of  the 
bed  and  cried  like  a  baby.  Olive  blamed  herself 
bitterly  for  bringing  him  there  against  his*  will. 
His  nerves  were  out  of  gear.  She  decided  she 
would  never  again  urge  him  to  take  part  in  one 
of  these  horrid  distasteful  functions. 

After  all,  she  thought,  he  was  quite  right. 
She  applied  his  own  favourite  test.  The  apos- 
tles never  attended  the  laying  of  foundation 
stones  with  masonic  honours. 

But  as  he  sat  there  that  night,  the  Bishop 
made  up  his  mind.  This  must  cease  for  ever. 
He  could  not  go  on  living  this  lie  for  a  lifetime. 


2o6  THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

Each  day  that  passed  made  the  role  more  hate- 
ful. While  he  was  a  mere  country  parson, 
it  had  been  easier  to  carry  it  off;  but  now,  his 
very  conspicuousness  made  his  irksome  task 
harder. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A    QUESTION    OF    ORDINATION. 

A  WEEK  or  two  later,  there  was  a  dinner 
party  at  the  Palace;  a  clerical  dinner  party;  what 
Evelyn  irreverently  described  in  her  own  curt 
dialect  as  "  feeding  the  diocese."  Evelyn  was 
a  "  sport  "  in  an  episcopal  family.  Her  language 
was  based  on  the  undergraduate  model:  her  ideas 
were  surreptitiously  derived  from  yellow  French 
romances. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  dinner,  Evelyn's 
manner  had  been  uneasy.  A  Canon  of  Christ 
Church  was  among  the  guests,  fresh  over  from 
the  House.  Evelyn  asked  him  at  dessert,  hav- 
ing bottled  up  her  eagerness  so  long  with  diffi- 
culty, whether  the  class-list  in  Greats  was  out 
yet.  Oh,  yes,  out  this  afternoon,  the  Canon 
answered.  Evelyn  wondered,  unconcernedly, 
who  had  got  Firsts.  "Two  Christ  Church 
men,"  the  Canon  believed.  "  I  forget  their 
names."  Evelyn's  anxiety  controlled  itself  ad- 
.  mirably. 

207 


208  THE    INCIDLNIAL    BISHOP. 

That's  the  worst  of  a  secret  engagement,  she 
thought  to  herself;  you  can't  even  have  a  tele- 
gram. Still,  where  would  the  fun  of  an  engage- 
ment come  in  if  it  weren't  secret?  A  girl  who 
has  the  misfortune  to  belong  to  an  episcopal 
household  is  hard  put  to  it  for  romance;  and 

lyn,  for  all  her  slanginess,  was  essentially  ro- 
mantic. The  excitement  of  secrecy  was  wortli 
to  her  mind  even  the  consequent  necessity  for 
foregoing  a  telegram. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  remember  whether  Mr. 
Beddingley  of  Oriel  got  a  Second?  "  she  inquired 
in  the  same  unconcerned  tone.  "  He  comes  here 
sometimes." 

Why  a  Second,  Evelyn?  *  the  Bishop  asked. 
"  You  prejudge  the  case,  my  child.     It  would 
have  been  kinder  to  ask  whether  he  had  got  a 
•nlcln't  it?" 

i  shrugged  her  shoukU  ntly 

Second  would  be  good  bizz  for  poor  little  Bed- 
dingley/' she  answered. 

"  He's  an  excellent  young  man,"  Mrs.  Glis- 
son  interposed,  not  even  venturing  to  object  to 
an  clement  in  a  young  lady's  vocabulary. 
"  He  has  such  very  high  principles." 

"  I  haven't  measured  them."  Kvelyn  rotor 
"so  I  don't  know  exactly  how  high  they  run; 
but  if  they're  more  than  i;  five,  they  must 


A   QUESTION    OF   ORDINATION.  209 

stick  up  above  his  head,  which  would  be  uncom- 
fortable for  walking." 

"  My  dear,"  her  father  interposed,  "  you  are 
unjust  to  young  Beddingley.  He  is  precisely 
the  sort  of  man  I  should  choose  by  prefer- 
ence to  assist  me  in  the  arduous  work  of  a  dio- 
cese." 

"  Cut  out  for  an  examining  chaplain,"  Evelyn 
responded  with  a  snap.  "  That's  just  how  I 
measured  him  myself.  He  was  born  examining. 
But  the  Canon  hasn't  told  us  whether  he  got  his 
Second." 

"  I  forget  whether  his  name  was  in  the  list," 
the  Canon  answered,  pressing  his  lips  together 
with  a  dubitative  air,  as  when  one  judges  an  un- 
known vintage.  "  Beddingley;  Beddingley;  no," 
he  shook  his  head;  "  I  can't  recall  him." 

"  Then  there  was  a  Mr.  Thornbury  of  Mer- 
ton  whom  I  met  at  the  Dean's,"  Evelyn  contin- 
ued, with  a  carefully  casual  manner  which  Mrs. 
Glisson  noted  as  a  sure  mark  of  much  more 
active  interest.  "  He  was  going  in  this  term. 
Such  a  jolly  young  man.  He  won  the  hundred 
yards  at  the  'Varsity  grinds.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  whether  he  got  a  First?  " 

"  Why  not  a  Second?  "  Mrs.  Glisson  asked 
mischievously. 

Evelyn   betrayed    herself   by   a   faint    blush. 


2io  'IHi  :  N  PAL    I 

"  Because  he's  really  cle\  e   answered. — 

"  and  probably  has  principles  several  inches  short- 
er than  Mr.  Beddingley's.  At  least,  he's  six 
inches  taller;  so  perhaps  on  what  Daddy  calls 
the  law  of  compensation,  he  may  make  up  in 
height  for  what  he  lacks  in  principles.  For  my 

I  prefer  them  to  take  it  out  th 
I  can  never  understand  why  people  are  so  dead 
stuck  on  principles."    And  she  looked  about  her 
defiantly. 

"Thornbury?  "  the  Canon  repeated,  rolling 
the  name  on  his  palate,  as  one  rolls  an. uncer- 
tain port,  to  see  whether  he  recognised  it. 
"  Thornb  liMrnbury?  <  M"  Merlon,  did 

say?  Yes,  I  think  he  got  a  Third:  in  fact,  I  recall 
it  now, — Thornbury  of  Merton." 

But    Evelyn   was   not   looking  or  listening. 
Suddenly   her  eyes  had   wandered   at   a  bound 
from  the  table  and  across  the  lawn;  and   1 
fixed  themselves  on  a  fluttering  white  object  that 
flickered  strangely  above  the  green  of  the  rho- 
dodendrons.    She  knew  that  sign  well.     It   \ 
Alex   Thornbury,    creeping   close   in   his   canoe 
under  the  garden  bank,  and  giving  her  the  signal 
that  he  was  there  to  meet  her. 

In  a  second,  she  had  forgotten  the  strawber- 
ries on  her  plate,  and  was  full  of  the  adventure. 
Her  own  handkerchief  fluttered  unobtrusively 


A   QUESTION   OF   ORDINATION.  2II 

in  reply.  She  must  slip  out  somehow  and  learn 
from  Alex  himself  whether  or  not  he  had  really 
taken  a  Third  in  the  Schools  and  thereby  wrecked 
his  chance  of  an  inspectorship. 

"  What  are  you  doing  about  Greenslade  of 
Reading?  "  the  Canon  asked,  changing  the  sub- 
ject abruptly. 

The  Bishop's  face  grew  dark.  Two  vertical 
lines  marked  his  broad  forehead.  "  Greenslade 
of  Reading,"  he  repeated.  "  Ah,  it's  a  very  sad 
business.  One  cannot  help  being  grieved  at  it. 
It  appears  there  can  now  be  no  shadow  of  doubt 
that  the  poor  fellow  was  never  ordained  at  all. 
His  ordination  letters  have  turned  out  on  ex- 
amination, I  regret  to  say,  to  be  a  complete 
forgery." 

"  I'm  sorry  you've  introduced  the  question, 
Canon,"  Mrs.  Glisson  broke  in.  "  I've  never 
known  the  Bishop  so  distressed  and  absorbed 
about  anything  since  we  came  to  Dorchester.  It 
has  been  a  terrible  blow  to  him." 

"  He  was  such  an  excellent  clergyman,  you 
see,"  the  Bishop  continued.  "  Or  rather,  one 
thought  him  so.  There  was  hardly  a  man  in  the 
diocese  whom  I  respected  and  trusted  more  than 
I  did  poor  Greenslade." 

".It's  a  shocking  disclosure,"  the  Canon  as- 
sented, helping  himself  to  burnt  almonds.  "  A 


212  THE    INCIDENTAL    HI-HOP. 

most  shocking  disclosure.     11  client  Ma- 

deira." 

lie  interesting  question  to  my  mind,"  a 
ntry  rector  put  in.  "is  this:  how  about  the 
lity  of  the  marriages  he  celebrated?" 
Evelyn   rose   with    sham   dignity.      "  Oh,    if 
youVe  going  to  discuss  the  validity  of  marriage," 
she  observed  in  a  mock  serious  voice,  "  this  is 
no  place  for  me.     The  episcopacy  I  can  sta 

to-day  is  a  social  figment.  But  not 
tin-  marriage  question.  I  draw  a  line  there.  1 
think  I  had  better  go  out  into  the  garden."  And 
she  seized  the  opportunity. 

Mrs.  Glisson  breathed  freely. 
"The  marriages  are  valid."  the  Bishop  v 
on,   not   lu  Kvclyn's  parenthesis.     "That 

point  has  been  decided  for  us  already  by  the  law 
courts.  I  have  looked  up  the  precedents  and  I 
I nid  the  case  is  fully  provided  for.  A  marr 

alid  if  solemnised  in  a  church  l>y  the  lie  facto 
incumbent,  or  by  any  person  who  has  been  ac- 
cepted as  a  clergyman  by  the  bishop  of  the  dio- 
cese, and  whom  the  parties  involved  have  both 
fide  priest  in  holy  orders  of  the 
C'hnrch  of  England." 

Yes;  legally,"  the  rector  assented:  he 
a  close  cson,  thin-lipped,  austere,  with 

a  v  anced  cassock  and  a  stiff  white  collar. 


A   QUESTION   OF   ORDINATION.  213 

"  That  is  a  question  for  the  law.  But  ecclesi- 
astically and  sacramentally?  That's  the  point 
for  our  consideration.  What  I  ask  is  this — Can 
the  Church  regard  such  persons  as  in  any  true 
sense  married?  " 

The  Bishop's  lips  were  white.  His  voice  fal- 
tered. "  I  cannot  allow  the  word  '  sacramental- 
ly '  to  pass  without  protest,"  he  interposed,  di- 
verging to  a  side  issue.  "  Marriage  has  never 
been  admitted  as  a  sacrament  by  the  authorita- 
tive voice  of  the  Church  of  England." 

But  the  rector  was  not  to  be  turned  aside. 
"  I  waive  that  point,"  he  said  tartly;  "  though 
I  do  not  allow  that  I  unreservedly  accept  your 
lordship's  correction.  But,  omitting  the  word 
sacrament,  the  important  question  for  us  as 
churchmen  is  this — a  question  for  churchmen  of 
all  shades  of  opinion,  sacramental  or  evangelical; 
are  couples  married  by  this  man  Greenslade,  who 
was  never  a  priest,  or  even  a  deacon,  to  be  con- 
sidered as  married  at  all,  in  the  Church's  sense? 
or  are  they  not  rather  to  be  regarded  as  living 
together  in  a  legalised  union,  a  meretricious 
union,  in  the  same  way  as  if  they  had  merely 
been  married,  or  rather  united  (for  I  cannot  con- 
sent to  call  it  marriage)  by  civil  contract  before 
a  registrar?  " 

The   Bishop  paused.     "  It   is  a  very   grave 


214 


problem,"  he  .v  .  with  ti 

tion,  for  a  bishop  must  n<  e  a  categor 

answer  about  anything  on  earth  without 

ing   to  himself  some   chance   of   hedging.      "  I 

•ild  not  care  to  decide  it  offhand  without  d 
deliberation." 

"In  my  opinion,"  the  rector  observed  with 

decision,  "  such  couples  are  living  in  unconscious 

they  ought  certainly  to  be  remarried  at  once 

by  an  ordained  clergyman.     The  bond  in  which 

they  remain  is  a  purely  human  one." 

"  I   don't   quite  see  that."  the  Canon  ir. 
posed.      He   was  a  safe   Moderate.     "  You  are 
pushing  the  doctrine  of  priestly  sanction  one 
gree  too  far.     Surely  the  children  born  already 
of  such  marriages  are  lawful  children?  " 

1  ful — yes — before  the  law;  but  born  in 
Christian  wedlock,  no.  The  union,  though  un- 
fortunate, is  obviously  not  a  Christian  marriage. 
I  would  call  such  persons  innocent  but  irregul; 

The  Bishop  deliberated.  His  manner  v 
distraught.  "  May  we  not  say,"  he  began,  rais- 
ing one  didactic  forefinger,  "  that  here  we  must 
distinguish  between  the  fact  and  the  intention? 
The  persons  who  unfortunately  presented  them- 
selves to  be  married  by  our  friend  Greenslade — 
I  i:  this  unhappy  man  who  has  so  deeply 

disappointed    our  \pectations — presented 


A   QUESTION   OF   ORDINATION.  215 

themselves  under  the  belief  that  they  were  being 
married  by'  a  bona  fide  priest  of  the  Church  of 
England.  Their  intention  being  thus  ecclesi- 
astically and  formally  correct,  they  are  surely 
guiltless  as  laymen  in  the  matter.  Many  of  them 
may  never  chance  to  hear  that  Greenslade  was 
not  a  priest  at  all;  and  such  persons  cannot,  I 
should  say,  be  considered  as  anything  other  than 
truly  married.  Charity,  my  dear  sir,  charity! 
Do  not  let  us  substitute  an  ecclesiastical  figment 
for  the  plain  fact  that  these  people  have  con- 
formed as  far  as  they  were  able  to  the  rules  of 
the  Church,  and  so  have  been  as  nearly  married 
as  they  could  manage.  The  intention,  after  all, 
is  not  the  intention  everything?  " 

But  the  rector  was  not  to  be  silenced  by 
mere  episcopal  opinion.  His  reverence  for  bish- 
ops was  greater  in  the  abstract  than  in  the  con- 
crete— as  often  happens  with  members  of  his 
school  of  thought.  "  I  do  not  say  such  people 
are  living  in  open  sin,"  he  answered,  bristling 
up.  "  That  would  be  ignoring,  as  your  lordship 
suggests,  their  innocence  in  intention.  Or 
rather,  I  would  put  it,  they  are  living  in  sin,  but 
with  innocent  ignorance  of  the  fact;  and  to  com- 
mit a  sinful  act  not  knowing  that  you  commit 
it  leaves  the  nature  of  the  act  in  itself  un- 
changed, though  it  may  of  course  excuse  the 


2ifi  Tin 

person.     I  would  not  assert  that  such  people  are 
actually  doing  wrong;  but  I  do  assert  that  the 
moment  they  discover  the  true  state  of  the  case, 
it  becomes  their  bounden  duty  as  members  of 
the  Church  to  put  themselves  right  by  gett 
remarried  at  once— or,  to  speak  more  correctly. 
by  substituting  a  regular  and  canonical  marriage 
for  the  irregular  and  really  impious  ceremony  in 
which    they    have   unwittingly   and    unwillin 
taken  part." 

"  It  would  no  doubt  be  safer/'  the  Canon  ad- 
mitted. He  preferred  constitutionally  to  be  on 
the  safe  side. 

"  Put  it  t!  'the  rector  went  on,  warm- 

ing up  to  his  subject.    "  Suppose,  for  argunu 
sake,  a  person  understood  to  be  a  bishop,  and 
acting  as  such,  were  found  some  day  to  be  in 

ty  a  pretender " 

\\  II  he  Bishop  exclaimed,  giving  a 

sudden  start   from   his  chair  and   turning  white 
with  emotion.        A  bishop  in  forged  orcU 

"  I  put  the  case  argument!  gratia,  my  lord," 

rector  went  on,  still  blandly,  though  taken 

•led  way  hi>  di<uvsan   I'' 
suggestion.     '   If  it  is  permitted 
by  Providence  that  a  simple  priest  should  dect 
the   faithful,  it   might  surely  be  permitted   that 
a  bishop  should  do  likewise.      Indeed   I  believe 


A   QUESTION   OF   ORDINATION.  217 

it  is  historically  true  that  just  as  there  have  been 
antipopes,  there  have  been  antiepiscopi.  Now, 
do  you  mean  to  assert  that  the  persons  ordained, 
or  apparently  ordained,  by  such  a  mock  bishop, 
are  really  priests  in'  any  ecclesiastical  sense? 
Could  such  persons  for  a  moment  be  permitted 
to  administer  the  sacraments  of  the  Church  for 
instance?  "• 

"  Certainly  not,"  the  Canon  answered. 

But  the  Bishop  said  nothing.  It  was  not  the 
rector's  argument  that  silenced  him.  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair,  very  deeply  perturbed.  He  had 
tried  for  years  to  keep  from  asking  himself  these 
very  questions,  and  now  he  could  delay  them 
no  longer.  This  case  of  Mr.  Greenslade  had 
made  a  solution  of  the  point  imperative.  Do 
what  he  would,  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.  He 
must  face  the  question  from  the  ecclesiastical 
point  of  view;  what  enormity  had  he  committed 
by  pretending  to  be  a  bishop  when  he  was  not 
even  a  priest?  and  what  was  the  status  of  the 
priests  and  deacons  ordained  by  him,  and  all  the 
persons  admitted  by  him  to  confirmation  and 
other  rites  of  the  Church? 

Lost  in  his  own  reverie,  the  Bishop  leaned 
back  in  his  place  and  let  the  stream  of  dialectics 
flow  by  him  unperceived,  while  the  Canon,  the 
rector,  and  the  other  clergymen  at  table  took 


1  Hi  \L    BISHOP. 

sides  either  way  as  to  the  validity  of  acts  j 
formed  by  one  who  was  not  a  priest  but  sup- 
posed to  be  so. 

"  If  such  an  interloper  were  never  discov- 
ered," the  Canon  objected,  "  he  might  even  be- 
come a  bishop;  and  in  that  case,  apostolic  suc- 
cession might  altogether  be  vitiated." 

"  The  Welsh  and  Cornish  clergy  of  the 
Celtic  Church   wore  not   lawfully  consecrated. " 
another  disputant  objected.    "  It  is  doubtful, 
cording  to  the  latest  authorities,  whether  they 

PC  even  priests.    They  were  certainly  not  bi 
ops.    The  way  in  which  they  received  the  apos- 
tolic succession,  if  any,  is  far  from  certain.    They 

re  undoubtedly  heretics.  The  way  in  which 
they  conformed  is  still  unknown;  and  we  cannot 
discover  whether  they  were  ever  really  recon- 
ciled to  the  Church,  and  admitted  to  orders,  or 
whether  their  status  \  -urularly  recognised 

by  the  See  of  Canterbury.  So  that  the  whole 
of  the  Church  in  Wales  and  Cornwall  may  suffer 
from  the  very  irregularity  you  mention." 

"And  that  irregularity,"  the  Canon  contin- 

',  "  must  have  affected  the  entire  body  of  the 
Church  of  England;  for  priests  ordained  by 
Welsh  and  Cornish  Britons  may  have  risen  in 
time  to  be  English  bishops." 

"  More  than  that/'  said  the  historian  of 


A   QUESTION   OF   ORDINATION.  219 

party.  "  For  since  Nicholas  Breakspear,  who  be- 
came pope  as  Adrian  IV.,  was  ordained  in  the 
West  Country,  he  had  probably  some  taint  of 
these  irregular  Celtic  orders;  and  that  taint,  he, 
as  pope,  may  have  imported  into  universal  Latin 
Christendom/' 

The  Bishop  caught  that  last  phrase  and  gave 
a  sigh  of  relief.  After  all,  he  was  not  the  only 
man  through  whom  offences  had  come;  though 
he  knew  it  was  better  that  a  millstone  should  be 
tied  round  his  neck  and  he  should  be  cast  into 
the  sea  than  that  he  should  thus  vitiate  the 
whole  stream  of  the  Church  of  England. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

A    LIGHTER   TREATMENT. 

MEANWHILE,   Evelyn  had  slipped  from   the 
table  half  unpenx  id  strolled  down  with 

ostentatious  carelessness  to  the  weeping  willow 
by  tin   water's  edge. 

She  did  not  get  into  her  canoe  at  once,  h 
ever,  though  the  boat-house  lay  close  beside  the 
willow.     To  have  done  so,  before  her  motlu 
eyes,  and  in  her  light  evening  dress,  would  h 
been  to  court  enquiry,  if  not  prohibition.     So 
she  wandered  about  aimlessly  among  the  rho 
dendron  beds,  instead,  picking  a  white  pink  now 
and  ai^ain  and  smelling  at  it  ostentatiously,  as 
if  she  were  merely  engaged  in  walking  around  to 
cool  herself  after  the  heat  of  the  dining-room 
and  the  theological  discussion.    Thence,  by  slow 
degrees,  she  disappeared  behind  the  rose-busl 
and  gradually  her  way  back  again  un- 

perceived  to  the  boat-house.  There,  she  slip 
in  quietly,  while  Mrs.  Glisson's  eyes  were  fi 
with  mute  attention  on  the  silent  white  face  of 

230 


A   LIGHTER   TREATMENT.  22I 

the  Bishop;  and,  seating  herself  in  her  canoe, 
pushed  it  out  under  the  bank,  bending  low  as  she 
did  so  lest  her  mother  should  perceive  her.  In 
two  minutes  more,  she  was  safe  behind  the  loose- 
strife, and  paddling  at  all  speed  for  Day's  Lock 
and  the  backwater. 

A  second  canoe  awaited  her  among  the  irises. 
Evelyn  paddled  up  with  rapid  strokes  till  she 
was  within  talking  distance.  "  Well?  "  she  called 
out  in  haste,  and  in  a  very  eager  voice.  "  A 
First?  Now  wasn't  it?" 

Alex  nodded  in  reply.  "  Yes,  a  First,"  he 
answered  gaily.  "  They  say,  the  best  First  of 
the  year."  And  he  laughed  aloud  in  his  tri- 
umph. 

Evelyn  affected  not  to  be  relieved,  though 
the  Canon's  false  report  had  really  alarmed  her. 
"  I  knew  it,"  she  answered  carelessly.  "  I  hadn't 
the  slightest  fear,  dear  old  man,  that  you 
wouldn't  get  one."  But  she  showed  her  relief 
in  her  face,  for  all  that;  and  she  permitted  her- 
self to  be  kissed  with  a  tender  yielding  which 
was  not  quite  her  wont.  As  a  rule,  she  pretended 
that  demonstrations  of  affection  were  detrimental 
to  her  bodice,  her  hair,  or  her  laces.  "  Maud 
took  the  kiss  sedately,"  says  Tennyson.  A  lady 
should  take  it  so.  But  Evelyn  did  not  always 
rise  to  this  standard  of  taste;  she  was  apt  to 


Tin 

make  believe  she  did  not  care  about  kissing — 

retence  more  common  at  a  lower  level. 

She  withdrew  her  face,  flushed.  "  Then,  in 
that  case,"  she  said  slowly,  "  it  occurs  to  me, 
we  are  engaged,  Alex." 

"  I  believe  so,"  Alex  answered,  still  clinging 
to  her  hand.  "  You  said  you  wouldn't  be  en- 
gaged to  me  till  I  had  got  through  my  Schools. 
Though  what  precise  difference  being  engaged 
makes  to  us  I  don't  quite  know,  Evey.  It  seems 
to  be  a  purely  grammatical  distinction.  I  never 
could  understand  it." 

I  think,"  Evelyn  answered,  "  it  makes  this 
difference — that  we  look  forward  to  getting  mar 
ried,  more  or  less,  some  time  or  other." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  Alex  asked,  seizing 
her  hand  once  more. 

lyn  nodded  her  head  sagely.     "So  I've 
always  understood,"  she  answered. 

"  But  meanwhile,  Evey — I  may?  " 

Yes,  if  you  like,  Alex.  .  .  .  There,  that's 
quite  enough  now.     Suppose  somebody  were  to 
,  come,  dear." 

"  Xobody'll  come." 

"  Well,  they're  all  in  the  dining-room  at  pres- 
ent, discussing  the  validity  of  orders  or  some- 
thing.     Mums   is   looking   after   Daddy.      1 
got   apostolical   succession    awfully   bad   on    the 


A   LIGHTER   TREATMENT. 


223 


brain  this  evening.  So  I  expect  we're  all  right. 
Apostolical  succession  is  always  a  safe  draw 
for  an  hour's  discussion.  ...  Well,  the  next 
thing  is,  we  must  see  about  this  inspector- 
ship." 

"  I  might  get  a  fellowship,  Evey,  if  it  weren't 
for " 

"  No,  you'd  never  get  a  fellowship,  dear  boy. 
I've  asked  one  or  two  men — dons,  don't  you 
know;  and  they  told  me  that  was  out  of  the 
question,  because  of  screwing  up  the  Tutor.  / 
know  it  was  all  fight;  but  they  say  it  wouldn't 
do  as  a  matter  of  discipline.  The  episode  was 
too  public.  So  you  must  try  the  inspector- 
ship." 

"  Even  then,  we  couldn't  marry,  I'm  afraid, 
for  ever  and  ever  so  long." 

"  I  don't  care.  If  only  we're  engaged.  Being 
engaged  is  nice  enough.  It's  rather  a  mistake 
being  in  such  a  precious  hurry  to  get  married. 
Men  are  always  like  that.  I  believe  most  girls, 
prefer  a  tolerably  'long  engagement.  Just  tol- 
erably long,  don't  you  know;  not  quite  as  long 
as  the  face  you're  making;  but  just  about  so 
long.  It  gives  one  time  to  roll  about  the  fact  of 
being  engaged  on  one's  palate.  One  gets  the 
taste  of  it  so.  You  men  want  to  bolt  it.  You're 
always  so  greedy." 


THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 


low  can  one  help  it,  Evey.  when  you  look 
so  sweetly  saiu 

\Vell,  that's  not  business.  I'm  ever  so  glad 
you've  got  this  First  though,  Alex:  but  I  al- 
s  knew  you'd  get  it.  Didn't  I  say  so  when 
you  told  me  you  hadn't  read  all  last  term?  I 
said:  'Oh,  nonsense;  you're  clever  enough  to 
do  it  on  your  own.  if  you  choose,  without  read- 
ing/ And  you  were,  you  see.  So  I  was  right. 
There  are  men,  like  Mr.  Beddingley,who  can  mug 
and  grub  and  just  manage  to  scrape  through  with 
a  Third,  after  reading  for  ages;  and  there  are 
men  like  you  who  can  pull  through  without  try- 
ing, and  get  a  First  into  the  bargain.  By  the 
bye.  where  did  poor  little  Beddingley  come 
out 

"  A  Third." 

I  told  you  so!  Mums  will  be  angry.  She 
has  destined  me  in  her  own  mind  for  poor  dear 
little  Beddingley.  She's  gone  on  that  man:  he 
has  'such  very  high  principles!'  She  means 
him  to  be  Daddy's  examining  chaplain:  and  me 
to  marry  him;  and  she  intends  to  push  him  into 
a  minor  canonry;  and  so,  through  the  regular 
gradation,  till  he's  a  prebendary  or  something. 
He's  so  thoroughly  mediocre  that  he's  sure  to 
succeed.  Don't  you  fancy  me  married  to  a  pre- 
bendary, Alex '  I  what  prebendaries  arc 


A  LIGHTER   TREATMENT.  225 

supposed  to  do.  It's  a  worse  puzzle  than  arch- 
deacons. And  I  look  as  if  I  were  cut  out  for 
one!" 

She  held  her  paddle  at  an  angle  which  indi- 
cated the  expectation  of  an  immediate  advance 
from  the  opposite  side.  Alex  accepted  the  hint. 
"  You  wicked  little  pagan,  you  look  like  the 
sauciest,  naughtiest  little  girl  that  ever  dis- 
graced an  episcopal  palace/'  he  answered,  lean- 
ing over  and  kissing  her.  "  Evey,  it's  all  too  de- 
lightful, to-night.  I've  got  my  First;  and  I've 
got  you  with  me;  and  I'm  going  to  marry  you; 
and  I  won't  go  home  to  Oxford  till  I  don't  know 
what  hour;  and  as  for  the  proctor,  I  don't  care 


"Oh,  hush;  naughty  boy;"  she  clapped  her 
hand  on  his  mouth.  "  And  in  the  Palace  grounds 

too!  If  Mums  were  to  hear  you  she'd Now, 

Alex,  take  care!  you'll  really  upset  me." 

So  they  continued  to  discuss  the  possibili- 
ties of  an  inspectorship,  and  the  probable  length 
of  their  engagement — Evelyn's  preference  for 
length  growing  restrained  each  time  to  more  and 
more  modest  limits — while  the  party  in  the  din- 
ing-room were  occupied  at  the  same  time  in 
discussing  the  validity  of  early  Celtic  orders. 
Mrs.  Glisson's  eyes  were  fixed  hard  upon  the 
Bishop.  His  look  was  vacant.  More  than  ever 


226  THK    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

she  feared  the  strain  of  the  diocese  was  telling 
upon  him.  So  deeply  intent  was  she  upon  her 
husband  that  she  almost  forgot  for  the  time  her 
watchful  care  of  her  daughter.  And  indeed,  in 
that  party,  she  had  no  reason  to  fear  for  lv 
lyn;  though  Evelyn,  she  admitted  to  herself,  I 
the  sort  of  girl  who  could  get  into  mischief 
whenever  one  turned  one's  back;  but  what  harm 
could  a  girl,  with  the  best  intentions  of  mis- 
chief, manage  to  extract  from  the  rhododendron 
beds  at  the  Palace  or  the  dear  old  Canon?  And 
Cecil  this  evening  was  more  distraught  than  ever; 
she  feared  the  double  care  of  the  diocese  and  of 
his  weight  of  learning  was  beginning  to  tell 
even  upon  that  fine  physique  which  he  had 
brought  from  Australia. 

So  for  an  hour  or  two  she  never  thought 
more  of  Evelyn.  After  coffee  had  been  served, 
hov  md  the  details  of  the  \Vallingford 

Ruridecanal  Association  discussed  at  full,  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  her  that  Evelyn  was  still  miss- 
ing. Could  she  have  gone  out  in  the  canoe — 
in  her  thin  evening  dress — and  at  this  hour  of 
the  evening?  and  if  so,  could  she  have  managed 
to  upset  herself  and  get  into  the  r  Visions 

of  Evelyn  drowned  rose  vivid  before   her   ma- 
ternal eyes.     Vet  even  in  her  moment 
she  would  not  unnecessarily  disturb  or  frighten 


A   LIGHTER   TREATMENT. 


227 


dear  Cecil.  He  had  more  than  enough  burdens 
of  his  own  already.  She  would  stroll  out  into 
the  grounds  and  look  herself  for  Evelyn. 

She  walked  along  the  bank  as  far  as  the  boat- 
house.  It  was  even  as  she  feared.  The  canoe  i 
was  missing!  If  nothing  worse  had  happened, 
the  child  would  catch  her  death  of  cold  in  that 
light  Roumanian  embroidered  muslin  blouse, 
and  not  even  a  shawl  to  throw  over  her  shoul- 
ders. Much  alarmed  for  Evelyn's  safety,  she 
continued  her  way  along  the  water's  edge,  till 
she  had  reached  the  backwater.  There,  a  con- 
fused murmur  of  voices  struck  her  ear,  coming 
from  a  thick  bed  of  wild  yellow  irises.  Mrs. 
Glisson  paused.  Her  first  feeling  was  one  of  sin- 
cere thankfulness.  Evelyn  was  not  drowned,  at 
any  rate;  that  was  her  voice,  for  one.  But  the 
other — was  a  man's.  And  what  man  could  Eve- 
lyn have  picked  up  with  at  Dorchester? 

Maternal  solicitude  made  Mrs.  Glisson  risk 
a  wetting  of  her  feet.  She  stepped  down  on  to 
a  knoll  of  tufted  sedge  among  the  irises.  Then 
she  craned  her  neck  and  looked  over  softly. 

An  alarming  vision  burst  upon  her  eyes. 
Evelyn  and  a  man  whom  she  did  not  even  know 
by  sight  were  bidding  one  another  an  affectionate 
adieu,  with  the  usual  demonstrations  of  their  age 
and  relation. 


228  THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

Mrs.  Glisson  was  taken  aback.     "  Evel 
she  called  out  sever  ou?" 

"  Yes,  Mums,"  the  Bishopina  answered, 
unmoved,  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns. 
"  And  this  is  Mr.  Thornbury.  Alex,  dear,  my 
mother."  • 

Mrs.  Glisson  gasped.  "  But,  my  child,  you 
are  out  here — at  this  hour — in  that  very  thin 
frock — and  alone!" 

"  No,  Mamma;  not  alone;  with  Mr.  Thorn- 
bury." 

"  But — we  do  not  know  him!  " 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,  Mums;  it's  all 
right.  He's  Alex.  There's  no  harm  in  that. 
You  see,  I'm  engaged  to  him." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Glisson  v  1  to 

be  miserable.  Then  it  recurred  to  her  at  once 
that  she  too  had  been  a  girl;  and  that  she  too 
had  got  engaged  to  dear  Cecil  without  the  pa- 
rental sanction.  Though  to  be  sure,  that  was  to 

7 — while  this  was  only  to  some  unknown  \ 
son.     Still,  she  recognised  at  once  that  Evelyn 
cry  peculiar  j^irl.  who  would  have  her  own 

\,  and  to  ^ivc   Kvelyn  her  as  the  only 

safe  course  with  her.  So  she  made  up  her  mind 
at  once.  "  In  that  case,"  she  said  promptly,  with 
unexpected  acquiescence,  "  I  think  Mr.  Thorn- 
Imry  had  better  step  up  to  the  house  and 


A   LIGHTER   TREATMENT. 


229 


your  Papa,  and  we  can  put  things  at  once  on  a 
regular  basis." 

Alex  stood  up  in  his  canoe,  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  looking  peculiarly  sheepish.  A  man  always 
finds  such  positions  trying.  But  Evelyn  was 
quite  unabashed.  "  Very  well,  dear,"  she  an- 
swered. "  That's  just  as  you  wish.  Sooner  or 
later,  I  suppose,  we  must  tell  Daddy  about  it. 
And  the  betting  is  always  five  to  one  on  sooner 
against  later.  Alex  is  at  Merton,  Mums,  and 
he  was  just  going  to  catch  the  last  train  to  Ox- 
ford when  you  came  and  interrupted  us.  I  ex- 
pect now  you've  made  him  lose  it.  So  he'll  have 
to  sleep  at  the  Palace  all  night,  and  Daddy'll  have 
to  write  and  tell  his  Tutor  he  was  delayed  with 
us  by  accident." 

She  said  it  with  gusto;  for  this  sort  of  adven- 
ture exactly  suited  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN    OFFICIAL    INTERVIEW. 

"  SIR  NATHANIEL  will  see  you  at  once,"  said 
the  Private  Secretary,  in  the  most  deferential  of 
his  twenty-seven  carefully  graduated  manners. 
"  But  he  hopes  your  business  will  be  brief,  my 
lord:  for  he  expects  a  deputation  from  the  Con- 
gregationalists  and  Baptists  at  11130;  in  spite 
of  which,  he  would  really  like  to  give  you  a  few 
minutes.  This  way.  if  you  please.  Lovely  morn- 
ing, ixn't  it 

The  Bishop  followed  the  underling  into  the 

's  inner  room.    Sir  Nathani-  ton 

his  head  from  a  pile  of  papers,   which  he 

thrust  away  wearily.     "Ah,   Dr.   Glisson?"  he 

said  in  his  big  languid  voice,  as  of  a  tired  giant. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you,  my  dear  bishop.    I  don't 

think    we've    met    since   you've   worn   a   mitre. 

Do  you  wear  a  mitre,  by  the  way?    Dr.  Gregory 

of  Lindisfarne  was  at  Oxford  with  me,  you  kn« 

and  in  those  day  had  hardly  more  theology,  I'm 

afraid,  than  the  rest  of  us.    He  preferred  C 
230 


AN   OFFICIAL    INTERVIEW.  231 

to  the  Pauline  Epistles.  But  I  went  down  to 
Northumberland  a  few  weeks  since — on  official 
business,  I  need  hardly  say — I  am  the  slave  of  the 
office;  and  whom  should  I  see  at  a  function  in 
the  Minister,  but  Charlie  Gregory,  if  you  please, 
as  my  Lord  Bishop  in  excelsis,  wearing  a  pea- 
green  object  on  his  back  which  I  should  describe 
in  my  ignorance  as  probably  a  cope,  and  carry- 
ing in  his  hands  what  f  should  also  be  inclined 
(under  correction)  to  designate  as  a  crozier.  It 
was  awfully  funny.  And  I  remember  when 
Charlie  Gregory  lighted  a  fire  in  Tom-Quad,,  and 
was  promptly  sent  down  for  it." 

"  A  man  outlives  such  things,"  the  Bishop 
said  wearily.  (He  does  not  outlive  being  a  wolf 
in  sheep's  clothing.) 

"  Some  people  do — and  some  people  don't," 
the  representative  of  governmental  education  re- 
plied with  cheerful  tolerance.  "  It's  the  old 
story,  you  know;  one  man  may  steal  a  horse,  and 
another  mayn't  look  over  the  hedge.  That's 
popular  wisdom.  We  have  it  exemplified  here. 
You  are  the  only  bishop  on  the  bench  I  would 
have  received  this  morning.  Very  undiplomatic 
to  tell  you  so,  you  think.  Not  at  all;  not  at  all: 
most  diplomatic.  For  does  not  true  diplomacy 
consist  in  knowing  and  understanding  your  man? 
If  I  had  said  that  to  the  Bishop  of  Lindisfarne, 


THE    INCIDENTAL 

for  example,  he  would  have  commented  upon  it 
at  a  Church  Congress  as  a  gross  slight  to  t he- 
episcopate.     But  when  I  say  it  to  you.  I   know 
that  you  will  accept  it  as  a  personal  complin 
to  the  most  reasonable  and.  moderate  on 

the  bench.  So,  having  greased  the  wheels  of 
conversation  with  a  little  judicious  compliment, 
let's  get  to  business.  I'm  expecting  these  in- 

minable  Baptists  at  half  past  eleven.     I  call 

:n  interminable  to  yon  in  strict  confidence. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  >ir.  1'apti-ts  are  almost  as 
exacting  as  bishops;  and  between  the  two,  the 
upper  nn<l  nether  grindstones  of  the  educational 
mill,  you  behold  me  crushed — annihilat- 

Sir  Nathaniel  drew  himself  up  to  his  six 
four,  with  shoulders  to  match,  and  looked  about 
as  little  crushed  as  any  man  in  England.     But 
the  Bishop  understood  him.     What  he  said  \ 
true.     He  could  talk  the  usual  circumlocutory 

lect  of  Government  offices  whenever  that 
tongue  was  necessary;  but  he  could  also  unl>< 
when  he  chose  with  a  very  effective  candour 
which  committed  him  to  nothing,  while  it  flat- 
tered his  companion  with  a  sense  of  belonging 
to  the  inner  circle. 

The  Bishop  discussed  for  ten  minutes  or  so 
the  affairs  of  the  Church  schools  in  the  diocese  of 
Dorchester,  which  were  the  object  of  his  v: 


AN    OFFICIAL   INTERVIEW.  233 

Sir  Nathaniel  listened;  assented;  stifled  a  yawn; 
smiled  genially;  was  cordial  in  generalities,  and 
when  it  came  to  particulars  would  give  his  best 
consideration  (but  no  immediate  answer)  to  all 
practical  suggestions  the  Bishop  had  to  urge 
upon  him.  He  was  suave  and  non-committing. 
"  By  the  way/'  he  said  at  last,  turning  over  some 
papers  .listlessly,  "  there  will  be  a  vacancy,  I  see, 
for  a  junior  examiner  in"  your  district  by  Christ- 
mas. It  is  strictly  irregular;  but  I  ask  between 
ourselves.  I  ask  for  information  merely;  it  being 
my  duty  to  make  things  as  comfortable  as  I  can 
for  all  parties  concerned,  without,  if  I  may  be 
excused  the  expression,  making  hay  of  the  public 
service.  Now,  is  there  any  candidate  or  any 
existing  inspector  whom  you  would  particularly 
like  to  see  transferred  to  your  circuit?  Because, 
if  so,  we  make  it  a  rule  never  to  be  influenced  in 
the  slightest  degree  by  the  private  wishes  of  any- 
body and  more  especially  of  bishops;  but  we 
might  consider  the  person  in  the  ordinary  rota- 
tion; and  if  he  happened  to  be  in  all  respects 
by  far  the  most  suitable  public  servant  we  could 
find  for  the  place,  and  if  we  felt  disposed  to  risk 
appointing  him,  the  fact  that  you  desired  to  have 
him  there  at  your  side,  might  possibly  not  be 
allowed  to  tell  against  him.  I  say,  it  might  pos- 
sibly not;  and  on  the  other  hand  it  might  pos- 


Till  iOP. 

y    l>c    fatal    to   his    chance-  <  rnment 

government.  So  if  you  care  to  hazard  it.  and 
will  mention  anyone,  this  department  will  en- 
deavour to  forget  the  person's  name  at  once, 
and  will  appoint  entirely  in  the  public  int 

I  understand  that,  of  course/'  the  Bishop 
answered  in  his  guileless  w  \nd  I  shall  not 

be  surprised  if  I  find  my  candidate  is  not  ap- 
poini 

"  Nor  if  yon  find  he  is,"  Sir  Nathaniel 
interposed,  smiling.  "  \Ve  are  impartial, 
recollect,  im-partial.  These  things  cut  L 

"Oh,  certainly,"  the  Bishop  said,  smiling  in 
turn,  he  knew  not  why. 

"  Well,  what  name?  "  the  Secretary  went  on, 
glam  ide  at  the  clock. 

'  His  name?  "  the  Bishop  answered:  "  oh. 
name — I  forgot — is  Alexander  Thornbury.  He 
has  just  taken  his  degree — First  in  Greats — at 
Oxford.  His  college — Merton.  And  I  ought  to 
inform  v<>u  at  once,  lest  I  should  seem  to  hold 
back  the  fact  at  the  outset,  that  he  has  got  him- 
self engaged,  without  my  consent,  to  my  daugh- 
ter Evelyn." 

The  great  man  laughed.  "  But  has  obtained 
that  consent  ex  post  facto?"  he  chimed  in. 


AN   OFFICIAL   INTERVIEW.  23? 

"  That  is  about  the  true  state  of  the  case, 
Sir  Nathaniel." 

"  Well,  so  far  as  it  goes,  that  circumstance 
does  not  seem  to  tell  against  him.  If  you  are 
prepared  to  entrust  him  with  your  daughter's 
happiness,  ex  post  facto  or  otherwise,  you  have 
probably  confidence  in  his  abilities  and  his 
honour." 

"  At  any  rate,  Evelyn  has,"  the  Bishop  re- 
sponded with  the  parental  dutifulness  of  the  nine- 
teenth century. 

"  Miss  Evelyn  is  a  young  lady  of  great  dis- 
crimination," the  Secretary  observed. 

"  I  trust  so,"  the  Bishop  assented. 

Sir  Nathaniel  reflected.  "  His  name  is 
down?  "  he  queried  at  last. 

"Yes;  but  only  since  a  week  ago." 

"  Well,  if  this  department  were  going  to  ap- 
point him  at  all,"  the  Secretary  continued,  in 
an  abstracted  voice,  "  it  had  better  be  soon. 
Delay  is  dangerous.  Is  the  engagement  an- 
nounced? " 

"  No,"  the  guileless  Bishop  answered  prompt- 
ly. "But  why?" 

Sir  Nathaniel  stroked  his  chin  and  looked 
across  at  his  caller  with  a  comical  air  of  amuse- 
ment. "  Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  not  announce  it, — till  after  some- 

16 


236  THE    INCIDKNTAL    BISHOP. 

body  or  other  has  been  appointed  to  this  vacar, 
We  must  avoid  a  job.     Whoever  happens  to  be 
appointed,  it  would  be  quite  in  the  natural  course 
of  events  that  your  daughter  should  thereat 
by  chance  be  thrown  in  with  him,  and  proceed 
to  fall  in  love  with  him,  or  he  with  her,  which- 
ever is  the  fashionable  phrase  of  the  moment. 
Therefore,  I  ad  ir  daughter  to  wait — I 

speaking  unofficially,  without  involving  the  de- 
partment— and  only  to  get  herself  engaged  to 
whatever  person  we  may  happen  to  appoint,  a 
we  have  appointed  him.  If  we  were  to  do  any- 
thing  else,  don't  you  see,  there  might  be  a  sus- 
picion of  jobbc 

"  But  my  dear  -ir.  '  the  Bishop  c:  inn- 

ing 11P-  "  >'ou  know  E\  don't  mean 

to  say  you  suppose  she  is  the  sort  of  girl  \ 
could  fall  in  love  to  order  with  whatever  young 
man  you  may  happen  to  send 

Sir  Nathaniel  gazed  down  at  him  through  his 
pince-nez  with  a  pitying  smile,  as  one  might  gaze 
at  a  specimen  of  a  rare  and  interesting  but  almost 
extinct  animal.     "  My  dear  Bishop/'  he  said  at 
last,  fingering  the  ends  of  his  moustache 
do  not  understand  official  language  yet; — and 
my  belief  you  never  will,  either.    You  are  a  very 
difficult  man  to  whom  to  do  a  service.     Here 
I  positively  putting  myself  into  a  position  that 


AN   OFFICIAL   INTERVIEW.  237 

might  endanger  the  administration  all  through 
my  personal  feeling  of  liking  for  yourself — giv- 
ing away  the  show,  so  to  speak — creating  a  pos- 
sible public  scandal — and  telling  you  so  as  plain- 
ly as  a  public  servant  can  dare  to  tell  it  in  these 
degenerate  days — all  because  I  consider  a  recom- 
mendation from  you  worth  ten  reams  at  least  of 
ordinary  testimonials;  and  you  refuse  to  under- 
stand! Oh,  you  unsophisticated  person!  Please 
go  away  and  inform  everybody  but  Miss  Glisson 
how  I  assured  you — as  I  do  now  assure  you — 
that  nothing  save  merit  on  the  part  of  the  can- 
didate can  ever  be  taken  into  consideration  by 
this  department;  and  tell  Miss  Glisson  that  I 
send  her  my  kindest  regards — my  very  kindest 
regards — it  used  to  be  '  love  '  and  '  Evelyn/  I 
recollect,  when  she  was  smaller — and  that  only  a 
sense  of  public  duty  prevents  my  being  able  to 
make  the  slightest  concession  in  favour  of  any 
candidate  in  whom  she  happens  to  be  interested. 
But  a  sense  of  public  duty  renders  it  quite  im- 
possible for  me.  She  will  understand,  if  you 
don't.  She's  a  sensible  girl,  and  she  knows  what 
a  man  means  when  he  tells  her  his  intentions  in 
painfully  plain  and  most  unofficial  language." 

"  I'll  write  your  message  down,  I  think,"  the 
Bishop  said,  taking  out  his  note-book.  "  You 
said,  '  Tell  Miss  Glisson '  " 


233 


THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 


>h  no,  you  w<>n 't !  "  Sir  Xathaniel  answered, 
with  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  seizing 
his  hand  and  pencil.  "Put  up  that  note-book! 
I'm  not  going  to  let  you  say  you  took  down 
my  very  words,  my  ipsissima  verba,  in  writing. 
This  is  a  private  and  wholly  unofficial  interview. 
I  will  shorten  my  message  and  spare  your  mem- 
ory. Tell  your  daughter  that  if  she  looks  in  the 
Times  daily  for  the  next  >i\  weeks  >he  will  find 
out  whether  or  not  her  protege  is  appointed.  Re- 
mark that  I  say  prottgi.  Bear  that  word  in 
mind.  For,  if  you  venture  to  say  fiance, — you 
upset  the  governor 

The  Bishop  returned  to  Dorchester  bewil- 
dered; officialdom  was  one  of  those  things  he 
could  not  understand,  though  he  had  written  a 
book  on  the  Comparative  Grammar  of  the  Me- 
lanesian  Languages.  But  when  he  told  Evelyn, 
word  for  word,  as  far  as  he  was  able  to  remember, 
what  the  Education  Office  had  said,  she  laughed 
and  kissed  him,  and  answered:  "There's  a  dear 
old  Dad;  Alex  has  got  the  appointment !  "  And 
though  the  Bishop  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him 
make  out  how  Evelyn  knew,  he  was  sure  she  v 
right ;  and  he  was  relieved  when  -lie  added:  "  I'm 
I  won't  mention  it  to  anybody,  and  we'll  keep 
the  engagement  dark;  and  when  next  I  see 

thaniel  I  shall  set  his  mind  at  rest  \>y  telling 


AN   OFFICIAL   INVERVIEW.  239 

him  I'm  determined  not  to  wreck  so  admirable  a 
Government. " 

These  things  are  hidden  from  the  wise  and 
prudent,  the  Bishop  thought,  and  revealed  (in 
our  days)  to  babes  and  sucklings! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

SUCH    SWEET    SORROW. 

"  WELL,  good  bye,  Evey;  it's  dreadful  to  say 
good  bye;  but  there's  no  way  out  of  it.  I  can't 
stop  at  Oxford  after  all  the  men  have  gone 
down;  and  I've  got  no  money  to  go  to  London 
and  live,  as  I  should  like  to,  running  down  here 
twice  a  week.  So  I  must  just  go  home  till  work 
turns  up  someulu 

Parting    made   Evelyn   almost   old-fashioned 
in  her  tenderness.     "  It's  so  far,  Northuml 
land,"  she  said  wistfully.     *   I    do  wish   it    v 
nearer.      But    I   shall   write   to  you   every   day. 
Alex;  and  it  won't  be  so  very  long.    Oh.  I  can't 
think  why  your  people  go  and  bury  themselves 
in  Northumberland!  " 

"  Nor  can  I.  It's  out  of  the  world.  You 
can't  get  from  there  anywhere.  But  beggars 
and  parsons  can't  be  choo-- 

"  People  ought  to  be  able  to  live  where  they 
d.    p.."    Kvelyn    exclaimed    with    emphasis. — the 
depth  of  her  emotion  almost  justifying  her  miti- 
240 


SUCH   SWEET   SORROW.  241 

gated  profanity.  "And  a  country  rectory,  too! 
I  know  the  horrid  holes.  There's  one  comfort, 
anyhow — you'll  have  lots  of  time  for  writing 
to  me." 

"  Oh,  won't  I  just!  Evey,  I'll  write  you  such 
letters — as  long  as  that.  And  I'll  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  get  work  immediately." 

"  Oh,  as  to  work,  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid.  Sir 
Nathaniel  says  positively  you  shall  have  the  first 
appointment  he  can  find  to  give  you." 

"  But  your  father  told  me  just  the  opposite; 
he  said  Sir  Nathaniel  assured  him  it  was  impos- 
sible nowadays  to  make  interest  with  govern- 
ment departments,  and  that  nothing  but  merit 
could  be  considered  in  filling  up  public  appoint- 
ments." 

"  You  silly  boy!  you're  just  as  bad  as  Daddy! 
How  innocent  you  men  are!  Isn't  it  precisely 
the  same  thing?  What  was  language  made 
for?  " 

"To  say,  'What  a  darling  you  are,  Evey!' 
And  lips  were  made  to  kiss  you  with.  When  you 
call  me  a  silly  boy,  I  always  feel  it's  the  highest 
compliment.  Isn't  it  funny  to  think  that  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  lovers  have  said  just  the 
same  things  to  one  another  in  their  time  as  you 
and  I  say  now?  and  yet,  you  and  I  are  never 
tired  of  saying  them." 


THE    INCIDKMAL    lilSHOP. 

"  I  don't  think  they  can  have  said  quite  such 
nice  things,"  Evelyn  faltered,  with  a  mi>t  in  her 
es. 

Just  the  very  same,  I'm  told;  but,  Evey, 
they  couldn't  have  felt  them  as  you  and  I  feel 
the: 

"  Oh,  dear  no,"  Evelyn  cried,  clenching  her 
little  fists  hard.  "  Fancy  Daddy  and  Mums  ever 
having  talked  like  this — or  held  hands  as  we  do. 
But  people  were  different  in  those  days,  I  sup- 
pose. And  yet,  I  don't  quite  know;  for  Romeo 
and  Juliet  was  written  ever  and  ever  so  long 
ago;  I  was  reading  it  last  night: — and  Romeo 
and  Juliet  talk  much  the  same  as  we  do." 

"  That's  rather  a  compliment   to  us,  E 
isn't  i: 

Rude  boy;  you  shouldn't  say  so." 

"Another  f..r  that.  Thank  you.  Well,  I 
wUh  I  was  sure  Sir  Nathaniel  really  meant  it. 
But  your  father  gave  me  quite  the  opposite  im- 
pression. And  it  was  your  father  who  saw  him." 

"  But  he's  written  to  me,"  Evelyn  cried. 
"Look  here;  this  is  his  letter.  He  couldn't 
speak  plai: 

Alex  took  it  and  read — 

"Mv  DEAR  Miss  GLISSON:  (It  was  *  Evey ' 
once.  Ah,  these  cruel  years;  how  they  rob  us 


SUCH    SWEET   SORROW.  243 

of  everything!)  Well,  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
write  and  disappoint  you.  Your  father  tells  me 
there  is  a  young  Oxford  man  (I  forget  his  name) 
whom  you  desire  to  see  appointed  to  an  in- 
spectorship in  your  district.  Now,  if  I  were  not 
a  government  servant,  I  should  hasten  at  once 
to  oblige  a  lady.  Unfortunately,  however,  placed 
as  I  am,  it  is  impossible  for  me,  consistently  with 
the  rules  of  the  service,  to  exert  any  personal  in- 
fluence in  favour  of  any  particular  candidate.  Ap- 
pointments are  made  by  the  department  entirely 
by  merit.  No  doubt,  your  protege  has  merit;  and 
if  so,  his  chances  will  be  as  good  as  anyone  else's. 
But  not  otherwise.  Government  is  government. 
"  We  hope  to  be  on  the  river  shortly,  when 
my  wife  promises  herself  the  pleasure  of  bring- 
ing the  electric  launch  round  to  Dorchester,  and 
will  ask  you  to  go  for  a  few  picnics  with  us. 
Meanwhile,  I  am,  with — it  used  to  be,  love, 
"  Yours  most  sincerely, 

"  NATHANIEL  MERRITON." 

Alex  scanned  it  dubiously.  "  Well,  I  can't 
say/'  he  said  in  a  disappointed  tone,  "  I  see  any- 
thing in  it  of  the  nature  of  a  promise/' 

"Oh,  you  ineffable  goose!"  Evelyn  ex- 
claimed. "  What  could  he  say  plainer,  unless  he 
wrote  '  I  will  make  a  job  of  it  and  appoint  your 


244 


TR1 


man,  if  he's  as  ignorant  a-  a  turkey-cock1? 
Though  why  turkey-cocks  should  he  more  ig- 
norant than  any  other  birds  I  haven't  the  faint- 
est conception.  But  look  here — he  underlines 
\  1)\  merit/  And  he  says,  '  no  doubt  your 
protege  has  merit;  if  so—'  What  could  be 
clearer  than  that — without  absolutely  rendering 
hin  Me  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower,  or  what- 

ever else  they  do  nowadays  with  wicked  mi- 
ters?    And  then  he  puts:  '  It   was  /::ry  once/ 
And  he  goes  out  of  his  way  to  tell  me  Lady  Mer- 

n  will  call  with  the  electric  launch.    Why.  he's 
a  dear,  Sir  Nathaniel!     If  I  had  him  here  tl 
minute.   I   do  declare,  I'd  just  throw  my  ar 
right  round  his  neck  and  kiss  him!  " 

In   that   case.    I    have  no  reason  to  regret 
his  absence  ." 

There  you  are  with  your  horrid  little  sneer- 
ing Oxford  epigrams.      I   know   that    style,   sir. 
Little  Beddingley  can  talk  like  that.    But,  AI 
you're  going  away;  so  I'll  forgive  you  anything/' 

"  And  -me  he'll  appoint  me?  " 

"  Sure?    A  gun  isn't  in  it.     I  know  he  means 

it.    Before  Christmas,  too.    And  then,  Alex " 

She  nestled  up  to  him. 

14  x  :nen  are  not  in  such  a  hurry, 

know."   Alex  put   in   maliciously.     "  You  />n 
long  engagements!  " 


SUCH   SWEET   SORROW. 


245 


"  I  said  '  moderately  long/  And  then,  you 
weren't  going  away.  Just  think,  I  shan't  see 
you,  perhaps,  till  Christmas!  But  I  shall  write 
to  you  every  day.  Oh,  dear,  oh  dear;  Dorchester 
will  seem  so  unfurnished  without  you!" 

"  Well,  good  bye,  Evey.  I  think  we  ought 
to  say  good  bye  now.  I  must  catch  that  last 
train;  and  I  have  to  take  an  official  farewell  of 
your  mother  in  the  drawing-room.  She's  been 
awfully  good,  as  mothers  go,  to  let  us  have  such 
a  nice  long  time  out  here  alone  together.  Moth- 
ers never  were  young,  you  see;  they  don't  know 
how  we  long  to  be  left  to  ourselves.  But  she's 
good,  as  mothers  go.  I  must  go  back  to  her." 

"  Good  bye,  darling;  good  bye!  You  are  such 
a  dear.  I  wish  you  weren't  such  a  dear;  I  wish 
I'd  taken  little  Beddingley — for  I  could  say  good 
bye  to  him  for  ever  and  never  mind  it.  But  you, 
Alex, — oh  dear,  I  don't  know  how  I'm  ever  to 
get  on  for  six  months,  six  whole  months  without 
you!" 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN. 

ALL  that  evening,  the  Bishop  sat  close  in 
his  study.  He  was  consulting  books — books, 
books,  books,  innumerable.  It  was  a  question 
of  conscience  he  was  engaged  in  resolving.  And 
how  resolve  it?  What  reparation  could  a  n 
make  for  such  a  sin  as  he  had  committed? 

For  years  he  had  shirked  it;  now,  he  could 
shirk  it  no  longer.  He  must  escape  at  last  from 
thU  faKe  position  in  the  best  way  possible. 

His  first  idea  was  to  make  reparation  for  his 

»ng  by  bringing  down  upon  himself  some  fit- 
ting punishment.  Suppose,  for  example,  he  were 
to  forge  a  cheque  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  cer- 
tain of  detection?  Then  he  would  doubtless  be 
tried,  found  guilty,  and  duly  imprisoned.  Rut, 
what  difficulties  in  the  In  the  first  pli 

if  the  signature  was  obviously  false,  all  the  world 
would  merely  say  poor  Dr.  Glisson  had  gone 
mad;  and  instead  of  punishing  him.  they  would 
pack  him  off  to  a  comfortable  private  asylum, 
246 


THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN. 


247 


with  all  the  consideration  his  age  and  rank  sug- 
gested. Or,  even  if  he  succeeded,  he  would  be 
punished,  not  for  the  wrong  he  had  really  done, 
but  for  a  wrong  he  had  only  formally  and  peni- 
tentially  committed.  No,  the  cheque  was  use- 
less. It  shirked  the  real  difficulty.  He  must  in 
some  way  atone  for  his  own  actual  crime;  and 
the  only  true  atonement  implied  confession. 

Confession!  There  was  the  horror.  He  could 
have  borne  it  for  himself;  but  Olive,  Olive! 
How  could  he  ever  let  her  know  that  all  his  life 
with  her,  all  his  life  since  the  very  first  day  he 
met  her,  was  a  deception  and  a  falsehood — that 
he  was  not  Cecil  Glisson  but  Tom  Pringle  the 
sailor — that  he  had  never  been  a  clergyman — 
that  everything  she  believed  about  him  was  lies, 
lies,  lies,  from  the  very  beginning?  All  the  rest 
of  the  world  counted  for  nothing  to  him  now; 
but  to  let  Olive  know  that  the  man  she  had 
loved,  believed  in,  trusted  never  existed  at  all 
• — oh,  it  was  more  than  he  could  even  endure  to 
think  of. 

And  behind  this  dread  of  disillusionment  for 
Olive  rose  another  terrible  spectre  which  he 
feared  to  look  upon.  A  professional  spectre.  He 
was  not,  he  had  never  been,  a  priest  at  all.  Yet 
you  cannot  live  for  thirty  years  as  a  priest,  you 
cannot  hold  the  cure  of  souls  and  rise  to  be  a 


248  THI:   INCH-: 

bishop,  without  gr  \   degrees  thoroughly 

ecclesiastical  in  your  ideas  and   i  Tom 

ecil  Glisson,  whatever  he  called  him- 
self— for  even  to  himself  he  had  half  forgot 
by  this  time  his  own  original  name — was  now 
in  all  essentials,  save  the  spiritual  ones  recog- 

d  by  high  sacerdotalists,  an  Anglican  bishop. 
He  thought  and  felt  and  saw  things  bi>hop-\\ 
And  his  terrible  responsibility  came  home  to  him 
that  night  with  a  bishop's  acquired  professional 
sentiment.  He  magnified  his  office — the  office 
that  was  not  and  had  never  been  his;  he  knew 
he  had  been  instrumental  in  ordaining  false 
priests  who  thought  themselves  true  ones;  in 

rying  couples  who  in  the  eyes  of  the  Church 

e  never  married;  in  upsetting  in  a  thousand 
ys  the  organisation  of  Christianity  in  hi 
ous  parishes  and  his  present  diocese.     His  of- 
fence was  rank.      He  was  an   interloper  and  a 
fraud;  he  had  caused  many  men  to  sin  unwit- 
tingly; he  had  polluted  and  distorted  the  true 
vam  of  the  means  of  grace;  his  guilt  before 
was  great  and  unutterable.    He  was  not 
ire  that  he  had  not  committed  that  un- 
forgivable sin  on  which  he  had  preached  in 
time  more  than  one  eloquent  sermon.    He  stood 
abased  before  elf-convicted  offender. 

Yet   deep  as  was   his  sense  of  that  ecclesi- 


THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN.  249 

astical  wrong,  his  feeling  of  shame  before  Olive 
was  profounder  even  now  than  his  consciousness 
of  wrong  before  the  eyes  of  the  Almighty.  Om- 
niscience knew  always  the  full  extent  of  his 
criminality;  Olive  did  not.  Omniscience  could 
allow  for  the  chain  of  accident;  but  how  confess 
to  Olive  the  long-continued  deception? 

Indeed,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  it  was  not  the 
sense  of  sin  at  all  that  oppressed  the  Bishop;  it 
was  the  sense  of  a  deep  wrong  done  to  others. 
Like  all  greater  natures,  when  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  consequences  of  their  acts,  'twas 
not  forgiveness  for  himself  that  he  asked,  but 
some  chance  of  making  reparation  to  others, 
some  loophole  of  escape  from  the  injustice  he 
was  doing  them.  If  he  broke  Olive's  heart,  what 
mattered  forgiveness?  if  he  caused  others  to  go 
astray,  what  could  personal  repentance  avail  to 
repair  that  evil?  Nay  rather,  would  it  not  com- 
fort him  to  hide  his  head  in  nethermost  hell  that 
night  if  only  so  he  could  undo  the  harm  he  had 
done  to  his  innocent  Olive? 

All  night  long,  he  tossed  and  turned  on  his 
bed,  unable  to  sleep,  unable  to  dismiss  this  ap- 
palling torment.  He  stood  at  the  parting  of  two 
impossible  ways.  He  could  no  longer  go  on  as 
he  had  been  going  for  years;  he  could  not  yet 
turn  aside  and  own  the  truth  to  Olive. 


250  THI  AL   BISHOP. 

Early  next  morning,  distracted  with  doubt, 
before  the  first  cart  rumbled  over  the  bridge,  he 
rose  and  dressed  himself.  He  eat  no  breakfast, 
— in  his  present  fierce  mood  it  was  a  sort  of  cold 
comfort  to  him  to  mortify  the  flesh — but  started 
on  foot  for  the  railway  station,  whence  he  took 
the  first  train  of  the  day  to  Oxford. 

Dr.  Littlemore  of  Oriel  was  a  saintly  man — 
the  last  survivor  of  the  famous  group  which  had 
included  Now  man,  Pusey,  and  Keble.  To  Dr. 
Littlemore  he  would  go,  then,  and  lay  before 
him,  under  the  seal  of  confession,  this  difficult 
question. 

He  arrived,  all  breathless,  at  the  gates  of 
Oriel.  It  \\as  still  early  in  the  day,  and  the  doc- 
tor had  not  breakfasted.  His  servant  doubted 
whet  her  he  could  yet  see  anyone.  But  the 
Bishop  was  urgent.  This  was  a  question  of  dis- 
;  could  Dr.  Littlemore  give  him  an  inter- 
immediate 

He  was  ushered  into  a  formal  oak-panelled 
study.  Presently,  the  great  casuist  crept  in, — 
a  little  white-haired,  ferret-faced  man,  thin,  spare, 
and  bent,  with  ascetic  features,  and  keen  grey 
eyes  that  even  in  age  had  not  lost  their  sharp- 
ness. He  shook  the  Bishop's  hot  hand.  Full  of 
fierce  emotion,  the  Bishop  fell  on  his  knees  at 
once  before  the  great  confessor,  and  ask 


THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN.  251 

whether  the  father  would  receive  a  confession, 
treating  it,  whatever  came,  as  sacrosanct  and 
inviolable? 

Dr.  Littlemore,  with  a  fox-like  smile,  an- 
swered at  once  and  unhesitatingly:  "  Yes, — if  it 
were  murder." 

"  But  if  it  were  a  sin  against  the  Church — a 
sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost?"  the  Bishop  cried, 
with  his  livid  white  face  uplifted.  "  A  sin  that 
may  have  caused  many  to  go  astray?  Would 
you  keep  it  secret  still,  under  the  seal  of  confes- 
sion? " 

The  confessor  hesitated.  "  If  it  were  some- 
thing the  suppression  of  which  entailed  danger 
to  souls,"  he  answered  slowly — "  I  hardly  know 
as  yet:  give  me  time  to  consider.  The  point  is 
one  which  has  not  practically  occurred  to  me." 
He  suspected  that  unbelief  had  overcome  the 
Bishop. 

"  I  cannot  give  time,"  the  Bishop  answered, 
trembling  with  anxiety.  "  I  must  have  an  an- 
swer now.  Will  you  hear  me,  and  keep  my  se- 
cret?" 

"  I  will,"  Dr.  Littlemore  replied  after  a  short 
pause  for  thought.  "  It  is  best  to  hear.  A  man 
in  your  position  in  the  Church  would  not  come 
to  me  thus  were  it  not  for  some  grave  and  urgent 

reason." 

17 


THE    INCIDINIAL    i:i>HOP. 

The  Bishop  knelt  before  him  like  a  little 
child,  in  a  fervour  of  repentance,  and  poured 
forth  in  one  wild  flood  the  whole  story  of  the 
secret  that  he  had  caged  in  his  own  breast  for  so 
in;my  years  of  gnawing  silence.  He  told  all. 
without  the  slightest  attempt  at  palliation  or 
self-vindication.  He  explained  the  whole  suite 
of  accidents  that  led  to  the  deception,  inde 
but  the  deception  itself  he  acknowledged  with- 
out reserve  or  excuse.  He  made  things  if  any- 
thing rather  worse  than  they  were  instead  of 
making  them  better.  A  fever  of  penitence  and 
self-abasement  was  upon  him.  He  longed  to 
utter  the  whole  truth,  to  have  it  out  for  once, 
to  gain  a  moment's  sympathy,  or  if  not  sympa- 
thy at  least  a  hearing,  from  some  fellow-creature. 

The  one  person  to  whom  under  any  other  cir- 
cumstances he  would  have  poured  forth  every- 
thing ••irally  Olive;  and  Olive  was  now 
the  one  person  on  earth  to  whom  it  was  most 
impossible  he  should  let  out  one  word  of  it. 

Dr.   Littlemore  listened  with  an  and 

horrified  face.  The  shock  was  unutterable.  To 
the  tremulous  old  priest,  this  was  the  worst 
crime  the  heart  of  man  could  conceive,  a  sin  of 
the  deepest  blackness  against  the  majesty  of 
heaven.  More  than  that,  it  was  a  sin  the  far- 
reaching  consequences  of  which  were  beyond  cal- 


THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN. 


253 


dilation.  Theft  and  murder  were  nothing  to  it. 
It  was  a  conspiracy  against  souls.  Men  and 
women  were  living  in  unblessed  unions,  uncon- 
secrated  hands  were  dispensing  the  sacramental 
mysteries,  endless  confusion  had  crept  into  the 
divine  order  of  things,  all  because  this  one  man 
had  rashly  dared  to  constitute  himself  what  only 
the  organised  voice  of  the  divine  Church  itself 
could  suffice  to  make  him.  He  had  sinned  the 
sin  of  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram.  Dr.  Little- 
more  almost  waited  to  see  earth  open  wide  and 
swallow  him  up  visibly  as  it  swallowed  up  the 
pretenders  to  the  office  of  Aaron. 

At  the  end,  he  shut  his  eyes  and  remained 
long  silent.  Words  failed  his  emotion.  The 
Bishop  bent  his  awed  head  and  awaited  judg- 
ment. 

"  The  first  question  for  me/'  the  casuist  said 
at  last,  speaking  slowly  and  deliberately,  with 
deep  suppressed  feeling,  "  is,  ought  I  to  have 
promised  to  keep  your  secret?  Shall  I  do  right 
in  allowing  a  man  who  is  not  even  a  priest  to 
continue  fulfilling  episcopal  functions?  " 

The  Bishop  brushed  away  that  question  with 
one  conclusive  phrase.  "  Whatever  comes,  I  am 
done  with  all  that;  I  will  never  again  act 
either  as  priest  or  as  bishop/' 

"  Even  so,"  the  old  man  faltered,  his  lips  too 


grown    white,    "  am    I    doing    my    duty    by    the 

irch  of  God  in  concealing  the  fact  of  such 
e  irregularities?  " 

The  Bishop  bowed  his  head.  "  That  is  for 
you,"  he  said,  "  to  answer,  Father." 

They  sat  long  in  counsel.  Dr.  Littlemore 
prayed,  exhorted,  deliberated.  But  slowly  the 
Bishop  began  to  perceive  that  they  two  were 
attacking  opposite  problems.  The  casuist  was 
thinking  mainly  of  how  he  could  save  this  erring 
soul  by  confession  and  repentance.  The  Bishop 
cared  nothing  for  his  individual  soul — his  soul 
might  answer  for  i  ij-doing,  and  welcome, 

if  only  he  could  save  Olive  from  that  terrible  dis- 
illusion. It  was  not  eternal  torment  for  him- 
self he  dreaded;  he  could  welcome  eternal  tor- 
ment like  many  other  brave  men;  but  a  mom 
of  fierce  suffering,  of  incredible  horror  for  the 
man  he  had  loved  and  deceived  and  wor- 
shipped was  more  than  he  could  face:  his  whole 
soul  shrank  from  it. 

I  cannot  tell  my  wife,"  he  cried;  "  I  cannot 
tell  my  wife!  What  becomes  of  myself,  here  or 
hereafter,  I  care  very  little;  let  Heaven  punish 
my  sin:  but  1  mu<t  shield  my  dear  wife — I  must 
shield  her  at  all  ha/.ards." 

Dr.  Littlemore  was  shocked.     In  his  narrower 
a   man's   fir>t   duty   was   to  save   his  own 


THE   CLOUDS   THICKEN.  255 

soul,  and  after  his  own,  the  souls  of  others.  That 
a  person  in  a  fever  of  repentance  should  wholly 
disregard  his  own  future  welfare  seemed  to  him 
incredible.  But  the  Bishop  was  built  on  broader 
lines.  "  Let  my  soul  burn  for  ever,  in  burning 
hell,  if  such  atonement  is  needful,"  he  cried  with 
passionate  self-abandonment:  "what  is  my  one 
poor  soul  to  Olive's  happiness?  " 

They  wrestled  together  for  an  hour.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  the  Bishop  went  forth,  no  more 
relieved  in  mind  than  when  he  entered.  The 
saintly  man  had  suggested  no  way  out  of  this 
hopeless  difficulty,  save  the  one  hateful  way  of 
telling  Olive — which  made  the  difficulty.  Telling 
the  world  as  well — that  was  easy  enough  to  do; 
but  telling  Olive  also;  that  was  far  more  impos- 
sible. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

AT    BAY. 

WHEN  he  returned  to  Dorchester,  Mrs.  Glis- 
son  noticed  his  worn  and  drawn  expression.  He 
had  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  spent  the  night 
in  fighting  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus.  His  mouth 
I  rigid;  deep  wrinkled  lines  marked  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes;  his  lips  were  ashy  pale;  his 
check  was  colourless. 

She  asked  anxiously  what   was  wrong.     He 
put  her  off  with  an  evasive  answer.     No, 
he  was  quite  well;  it  was  only  this  question  of 
forged  orders  that  was  troubling  his  peace;  he 

/  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  He  had  consulted 
the  Fathers,  and  would  consult  them  further. 
Now  the  question  was  once  raised,  he  could  have 
no  peace  as  bishop  of  this  diocese  till  he  felt  he 
had  settled  it.  He  salved  his  conscience  at  the 
DM  time  by  saying  to  himself  that  tl  lit- 

erally true;  it  was  indeed  a  question  of  forged 
orders  or  their  equivalent  that  disturbed  his 
spirit. 

256 


AT   BAY. 


257 


His  confession,  he  found,  had  brought  him 
no  nearer  the  end.  For  'twas  not  of  repentance, 
of  forgiveness,  of  his  own  poor  soul  that  he 
thought,  but  of  restitution,  of  reparation  for  the 
wrong  he  had  done,  and  of  Olive.  An  assur- 
ance at  that  moment  that  his  sin  was  forgiven 
would  have  availed  him  little.  The  wrong  not 
the  sin  it  was  that  troubled  him.  Forgiveness 
of  his  sin  would  have  left  Olive  untouched. 
Olive's  disillusion  was  the  one  dread  that  haunted 
him. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  his  study  once  more, 
and  locked  the  door  behind  him  lest  anyone 
should  chance  to  come  in  and  disturb  him.  Then 
he  seated  himself  by  his  desk,  buried  his  head 
in  his  hands,  and  proceeded  to  think  out  this  in- 
soluble problem.  * 

The  longer  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  insolu- 
ble it  grew.  He  could  only  arrive  at  one  conclu- 
sion for  the  moment.  Never  again  from  that 
day  forth  would  he  perform  any  clerical  or  epis- 
copal function.  He  was  done  with  lying,  and 
with  acting  out  the  lie.  How  to  carry  out  this 
resolve  he  had  no  clear  conception;  but  the  re- 
solve was  there.  For  Olive's  sake,  he  shrank 
from  revealing  what  he  ought  to  reveal — that  he 
was  not  and  never  had  been  really  a  clergyman. 
But  at  least  he  could  refrain  in  future  from  add- 


258  THE    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

ing  to  his  wrong-doing,  and  from  extending  the 
possible  field  of  evil  by  ordaining  men  who  were 
not  canonically  ordained  and  by  confirming  chil- 
dren without  proper  authority.  That  meant,  of 
course,  that  he  must  resign  his  see:  "  His  bish- 
opric let  another  take  "  rang  in  his  ears  per- 
petually. 

And  when  he  reflected  (in  his  honestly  pro- 
fessional way)  what  "  a  sphere  of  usefulness  "  the 
bishopric  afforded  him,  he  was  truly  sorry  for 
it.  But  give  it  up  he  must.  That  was  the  one 
thing  certain.  Though  it  struck  him  as  curious, 
for  all  his  humility,  that  he,  the  one  bishop  who 
l>een  even  a  priest,  should  be  the  only 
man  on  the  bench  then  strenuously  engaged  in 
fighting  the  battle  of  the  poor,  the  unemplo\ 
the  downcast,  the  miserable.  He  would  li 
been  a  good  Christian,  but  for  the  misfortune  of 

umstances;  what  a  pity  that  circumstances 
must  deprive  God's  poor  of  their  chief  protector 
in  the  English  episcop.r 

More  than  that,  he  must  give  up  at  once 
every  advantage  he  had  gained  from  his  false 
position.  That  meant  poverty  for  Olive  and  E 
lyn,  of  course;  but  Olive  could  bear  poverty  bet- 
ter than  disgrace;  and  as  to  Evelyn,  why  Evelyn 
would  shortly  marry,  and  then 

But  would  Evel\n   marrv?     When  he  came 


AT  BAY. 


259 


to  think  of  it,  her  marriage  depended  upon  young 
Thornbury  receiving  that  problematical  appoint- 
ment at  the  Education  Office.  And  his  receiving 
that  appointment  was  dependent  again  upon  the 
Bishop's  recommendation.  But  the  recom-  i 
mendation  was  effective  only  because  Sir  Na- 
thaniel believed  that  he,  Tom  Pringle  or  Cecil 
Glisson,  was  and  would  continue  to  be  Bishop 
of  Dorchester.  Supposing  to-day  he  were  to 
write  to  Sir  Nathauiel  that  he  was  about  to  re- 
sign his  office  and  let  another  man  take  his  bish- 
opric, would  Sir  Nathaniel  still  think  it  desir- 
able to  appoint  young  Thornbury?  Nay;  if  this 
change  of  front  was  to  be  effective  at  all,  must  he 
not  try  from  this  moment  forth  to  prevent  any 
new  step  being  taken  on  any  hand  which  could 
add  to  the  sum  of  his  unauthorised  action?  A 
recommendation  to  the  Education  Office  was 
not  in  itself,  to  be  sure,  an  episcopal  act;  but  it 
had  been  made  by  him  as  bishop;  and  not  having 
taken  effect  as  yet,  it  must  be  nipped  at  once, 
at  whatever  hazard. 

The  Bishop,  however,  did  not  act  precipi- 
tately. Episcopal  training  militates  against  pre- 
cipitancy.  He  sat  long  in  an  absorbed  attitude 
before  he  proceeded  to  write  that  irrevocable 
letter.  But  at  last  he  wrote  it.  Nor  did  he  give 
away  his  case  and  his  cause  all  at  once.  He 


26o  THE    INrir»F.NTAI.    BISHOP. 

wrote,  not  as  one  might  have  expected,  in  a  tur- 
moil of  remorse,  but  carefully,  calmly,  deliber- 
ately, guardedly.  He  left  loop-holes  of  esca 
he  abstained  from  saying  the  worst  with  too 
abrupt  an  insistence.  He  explained  to  Sir  Na- 
thaniel that  since  their  last  interview  a  consider- 
able change  had  come  over  his  convictions.  He 
felt  he  could  no  longer  be  Bishop  of  Dorchester. 
"  Do  not  ask,"  he  wrote,  "  what  private  reasons 
have  moved  me  to  this  tardy  resolve.  I  have 
not  yet  made  them  public,  nor  do  I  know  whether 
I  shall  ever  make  them  public.  But  the  resolve 
itself  exists.  It  is  absolute  and  imperative.  You 
will  conjecture  as  your  first  guess  that  my  faith 
haken;  in  these  days  of  growing  doubt,  that 
I  natural  inference.  But  it  is  nevertheless  a 
wrong  one.  My  o  »n\  ictions  as  to  the  fundani 
tal  truths  of  the  constitution  of  the  universe 
main  unaltered.  Purely  personal  and  jni 
causes  lead  me  to  feel  I  can  no  longer  fulfil  the 
office  of  bishop.  You  will  ask,  once  more,  why 
I  make  you  in  particular  the  first  confidant  of 
this  strange  determination.  I  answer,  because 
yor  ie  person  of  whom,  as  Bishop,  I  last 

asked  an  official  favour.    Under  all  these  circum- 
stai          I  cannot  persist  in  my  recommendation 
of  Mr.  Alexander  Thornluny  »>f  Merton  Coll 
for  an  Inspectorship  of  Church   Schools  in  the 


AT   BAY.  26l 

diocese  of  Dorchester.  I  ask  you,  therefore,  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  to  cancel  this  recommenda- 
tion; though  I  feel  it  would  be  wrong  in  any 
other  way  to  interfere  with  Mr.  Thornbury's  nat- 
ural chances."  He  is  an  able  young  man,  whose 
merits  are  wholly  outside  the  present  ques- 
tion." 

He  read  the  letter  over  many  times  before 
dispatching  it.  It  did  not  say  enough;  and  yet 
it  said  too  much.  He  realised  that  to  send  it 
was  to  commit  himself  irrevocably.  Yet  he 
would  send  it  for  all  that;  and  to  make  sure  of 
its  going,  he  would  even  adopt  the  unusual  course 
of  carrying  it  out  himself  to  the  neighbouring 
post-box — for  he  was,  as  you  will  have  perceived, 
an  unconventional  bishop.  Strange  to  say,  for 
one  of  his  office,  he  had  no  petty  pride.  He 
looked  about  him  for  a  stamp.  There  were  none 
on  the  desk.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  called 
out  softly:  "  Evelyn!" 

"  Yes,  Daddy,"  Evelyn  answered. 

Her  unconcerned  girlish  voice  smote  the 
Bishop  to  the  quick.  Could  she  have  answered 
so  blithely  if  she  knew  why  he  called  her?  The 
thought  made  his  voice  unusually  solemn.  "  My 
child,"  he  said  in  an  austere  tone,  "  I  want  a 
penny  stamp."  He  said  no  more  than  that,  but 
his  accent  and  his  look  fairly  terrified  Evelyn. 


262  THE    INCIDKNTAL    BISHOP. 

Why,  Papa,  what's  the  matter?"  she  cried, 
looking  hard  at  him.  His  face  was  twitching. 

Nothing,  nothing,  my  child,"  the  Bishop 
answered  hastily.    "  That  is  to  say,  nothing  ph 
ical.     I  have  been  troubled,  as  you  know,  Iv 
lyn,  about  this — this  question  of  forged  orders; 
and  it  has  caused  me,  I  confess,  much  mental 
agony.     I  have  been  writing  a  letter,  my  dear, 
which  I  wish  to  post  myself;  and  I  want  a  penny 
stamp  for  it." 

He  spoke  with  confusion,  in  a  hesitating 
which  struck  Evelyn  as  doubtful.    She  snatched 
up  the  letter,  as  it  lay,  face  downward,  on  the 
blotting-book.     "Why,  it's  to  Sir  Nathaniel!" 
she  exclaimed  eagerly. 

Ye-es,"  the  Bishop  admitted,  trembling,  "  it 
is  to  Sir  Nathaniel." 

Evelyn's  face  flushed  fiery  red.    "  This  is  my 
business,"  she  said,  leaning  t  and  suddenly 

ring  it  open.    "  Papa,  Papa,  you  haven't  said 
anything  foolish?  " 

I  don't  know,  Evey,"  the  Bishop  answered, 
thankful  this  time  to  circumstances.  "  I  have 
said — what  was  inevitable." 

rlvn  read  the  letter  all  through,  and  then 
laid  it  down,  white-faced.  In  a  second,  she  real- 
ised that  this  \vas  a  very  serious  matter.  For 
Evelyn  was  no  fool.  Then,  as  often  happens 


AT   BAY.  263 

with  girls  of  her  sort,  so  great  a  crisis  brought 
out  all  the  latent  gentleness  of  her  heart,  con- 
cealed as  a  rule  under  a  purely  conventional 
garb  of  outer  flippancy.  She  was  not  angry; 
she  was  not  indignant.  She  merely  bent  down  a 
very  sobered  face  and  kissed  the  poor  soul- 
wearied  man  twice,  tenderly,  on  the  forehead. 

"  If  you  must  send  it,  Papa,"  she  said  slowly, 
"  you  must  send  it." 

"  I  must  send  it,  darling,"  her  father  an- 
swered, finding  suddenly  the  relief  of  tears. 
"  But,  oh,  Evey, — your  mother!  " 

Evelyn  looked  at  him  with  a  bursting  heart. 
"  I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  she  answered. 
"  But  it  means  something  very  bad.  And — it 
will  kill  Mother." 

"  She  believes  in  me  so,"  the  poor  man  burst 
out,  almost  yielding  up  his  secret. 

"  She  ought  to  believe  in  you,"  Evelyn  an- 
swered with  pride:  "for  we  all  believe  in  you, 
and  we  have  somebody  worth  believing  in. 
Daddy,  Daddy,  I  have  sometimes  made  fun  of 
your  scruples,  but,  darling,  in  my  soul  I  have 
always  honoured  them.  I  have  a  father  and  a 
mother  I  can  respect  from  my  heart ;  and  I  know 
you  can  have  done  nothing  Mother  and  I  could 
be  ashamed  of." 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed 


THE    INCID1.NTAL    BISHOP. 

him,  passionately.  But  just  at  that  second,  such 
a  declaration  of  faith,  made  from  a  full  heart 
in  a  moment  of  emotion,  was  the  very  worst  blow 
the  poor  wavering  Bishop  could  have  received. 
If  only  she  had  reproached  him!  He  wiped  his 
brow  and  held  her  off  from  him,  trembling,  as 
though  afraid  lest  he  should  pollute  her.  My 
child,  my  child,"  he  cried,  in  his  agony  of  self- 
abasement,  "  you  lacerate  me,  with  your  kind- 
ness. You  are  wrong;  you  are  wrong.  I  have 
done  things  to  plunge  your  mother  and  yourself 
into  shame  and  misery.  You  could  be  angry 
with  me  and  sin  not." 

I  don't  believe  it,"  Evelyn  answered  stoutly, 
o  Bishop  groaned.  "  But  it  is  true,"  he 
reiterated.  "  Yet,  Evey,  for  heaven's  sake,  cl« 
let  your  mother  know  it.  I  didn't  mean  to  tell 
yon;  but  if  she  were  to  know,  it  would  kill  her; 
it  would  kill  her." 

"She  doesn't  know;  she  shall  never  kn» 
Evelyn  cried.    "  And  whatevt  r  it  ix  it  i^n't  true; 
I   know  that  beforehand.     You  didn't   do  it;   I 

•w  you  couldn't;  or  if  you  did  it.  it  was  riijht 
and  good,  though  all  the  world  and  all  the 
churches  as  well  were  to  rise  and  say  it  \ 
anathema  maranatha.  I  know  you  well  enough 
to  know  this,  dear  Daddy — that  whatever  you 
do  is  right,  right,  right;  and  that  even  if  I 


AT    BAY.  265 

thought  it  wrong  till  I  knew  you  had  done  it,  I 
should  see  it  was  right  when  I  could  know  and 
understand  exactly  how  you  came  to  do  it." 

The  Bishop  rose,  agitated.  Her  faith  in  him 
almost  seemed  to  justify  him  to  himself.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately. 
"  My  child,"  he  said,  quivering,  "  if  you  knew 
all,  I  think  you  would  forgive  me.  You  would 
see  how  it  was  forced  upon  me  by  a  strange  con- 
currence of  circumstance.  But  your  mother — 
your  dear  mother — who  has  trusted  me  so  long 
and  believed  in  me  so  fully,  how  can  I  ever  tell 
her?  " 

"She  is  an  angel!"  Evelyn  cried.  "And  I 
have  behaved  like  a  little  beast  to  her  all  my  life. 
I  see  that  now.  Mother,  dear  Mother — she  must 
never  know.  Tell  me,  if  you  like;  but  never  tell 
Mother.  I  can  bear  anything;  I  am  strong 
enough  and  young  enough,  and  I  know  I  shall 
understand.  But  Mother,  who  trusts  you — her 
trust  is  not  like  mine;  she  trusts  you  because 
she  thinks  you  are  incapable  of  doing  the  things 
she  believes  to  be  wrong;  /  trust  you  because 
I  know  that  even  if  you  did  the  things  I  once 
thought  wrong,  it  is  you  who  have  done  them. 
And  that  makes  them  all  right.  It  guarantees 
them,  so  to  speak.  You  know  I  care  nothing 
for  your  rules  and  your  laws.  It  is  the  man  I 


266  THK  INCIM  IOP. 

c  for.     Not  what  a  man  doe>.  l>ut  what  IK 
stamps  him.     If  a  man  whom  I  know  to  be  as 
good  as  you  does  anything  that  seems 
I  know  there  must  be  a  difference  in  the  way  he 
does  it.     That's  all  very  modern  and  wicked,  I 
dare  say,  but  it's  the  way  I'm  built.    So  you  can 
tell  me  all.     Whatever  it  is,  I  know  beforehand 
I  shall  sympathise." 

The  Bishop  sank  into  his  chair,  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  once  more,  and  burst  out 
with  a  low  wai!  I  am  not  a  clergy- 

man.    I  was  never  ordained  at  all.    I  am  a  mere 
pretender." 

rlyn  bent  over  him  wildly,  caught  him 
hard  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  him  with  a  sudden 
flood  of  desperate  tears.  "  Is  that  all?"  she 

(1,  half  laughing.    "  Only  that,  dear  Dadd\ 

"/*///"  the  Bishop  exclaimed,  aghast,  draw- 
ing back,  and  staring  at  her.     "  What  do 
mean  by  all?    Isn't  that  bad  enough.  I 

Evelyn  hugged  him  in  her  relief.  "Oh,  if 
that's  all,"  she  ans\  ! rawing  her  breath,  "  1 

don't  mind  about  that.     I  thought  it  was  much 

rse: — something    really    dreadful,    don't    \ 
know — something  that  would  ha.  <-d  and 

killed  dear  Mother — something  about  someone 
else — you  understand  what  I  mean,  Daddy!" 

The  Bishop  stared  at   her  in   surprise.     He 


AT   BAY.  267 

did  not  realise  that  her  mind  had  turned  at  once, 
as  a  woman's  mind  always  turns  at  the  vague 
suggestion  of  impending  evil,  to  woman's  worst 
bugbear — superseded  affection.  Evelyn  had 
jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  there  was  a  woman 
in  it  somewhere.  A  mere  ecclesiastical  doubt 
wras  to  her  quite  trifling. 

"  This  is  worse,  darling,  worse,"  the  Bishop 
cried,  shaking  his  head  solemnly.  "  Evelyn,  I 
am  not  in  orders  at  all.  I  may  have  sinned  the 
unforgivable  sin,  who  knows? — Not  that  I  mind 
for  that,  but  for  your  mother,  darling." 

Evelyn  hugged  him  again  wildly.  "  Oh, 
that's  nothing,"  she  answered;  "  let  the  unfor- 
givable sin  go:  "  for  she  had  truly  said  that  she 
was  not  bishopy.  "  If  it's  only  that,  I  don't  care 
a  pin.  I  was  afraid  it  was  much  worse — a  pre- 
vious marriage,  perhaps; — or  another  woman; 
one  reads  about  such  things  in  books:  though 
even  then,  I  should  have  known  it  was  you,  and 
understood  everything:  and  we  might  have  man- 
aged to  keep  her  away  for  always  from  dear 
Mother.  But  if  it's  only  false  orders,  it  was  ac- 
cident, of  course.  I  don't  need  you  to  explain; 
I  know  about  it  all  in  my  heart  already." 

The  Bishop  began  to  tell  her  in  a  very  few 
words  the  tale  of  the  John  Wesley.  Evelyn  lis- 
tened to  his  story  with  evident  impatience. 
18 


THI  AL   BISHOP. 

"  Don't  bother  about  details,  dear,"  she  cr 
14  \\"c  must  only  think  now  about  sparing  Moth- 
er. You  have  written  that  letter,  and  you  had 
better  post  it.  It  will  ease  your  mind,  I  dare 
say.  Never  mind  about  Alex.  \Ye  can  wait. 
I'll  get  you  a  penny  stamp,  and  then  I'll  run  out 
with  it." 

The  Bishop  clutched  it  hard.    "  No,  no,"  he 
said;  "  you  won't,  my  child.     I  shall  post  it  my- 
self.    I  won't  trust  it  to  anybody.    I  have  begun 
this  matter,  and  now  I  shall  pull  through  with  it." 
elyn  noted  the  way  he  clutched  it,  and  her 
suspicion  deepened.     "  Very  well,  dear,"  she  an- 
iTed.    "  I'll  get  you  the  stamp;  and  then,  you 
and  I  will  go  out  and  post  it  together." 

The  Bishop  felt  relieved  even  by  this  partial 
confession.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
looked  up  at  the  ceiling.  When  Evelyn  returned 
with  the  stamp,  she  found  him  still  gazing,  with 
his  eyes  on  vacancy,  and  muttering  to  himself 
incoherently:  "the  sin  of  Korah,  Dathan,  and 
Abiram.  They  and  all  that  appertained  to  them 
went  down  alive  into  the  pit,  and  the  earth  closed 
upon  them;  and  they  perished  from  among  the 
congregation." 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

EVELYN    ACTS. 

As  they  returned  from  the  post,  Evelyn 
caught  sight  suddenly  of  a  well-known  figure,  in 
a  grey  tweed  suit,  hurrying  up  from  the  railway 
station. 

She  started  in  surprise  and  rushed  up  to  the 
wearer  of  the  suit,  excited.  "  Why,  Alex!  "  she 
exclaimed,  forgetting  to  be  flippant.  "  And 
without  telegraphing  beforehand  to  tell  me  you 
were  coming!  " 

"  I  didn't  know  I  could  manage  it,  darling, 
till  I  passed  through  Birmingham.  It  was  a 
close  fit  of  two  trains,  and  I  was  afraid  of  disap- 
pointing you.  But  I'm  on  my  way  to  town,  to 
see  Sir  Nathaniel  Merriton.  He  has  written  to 
make  me  an  appointment  for  an  interview.  So 
I  expect  it's  all  right — unless,  of  course,  when 
he  sees  me,  he  doesn't  like  the  look  of  me." 

"  He  couldn't  help  liking  the  look  of  you — 
unless  he  was  a  donkey;  which  he  isn't,  I  know, 
but  a  dear;  a  second  class  dear,  you  stupid;  the 

269 


THE    INCIM  BISHOP. 

middle-aged  sort  of  dear  that  you  needn't  look 
like  that  over." 

"  But,    Evey,    what's   the    matter?     You've 
been  crying,  I  can  see,  and  you  look  so  wor- 

1." 

Evelyn  drew  him  down  towards  the  ri 
behind  the  bushes  of  the  shrubbery,  where  she 
sank  on  a  garden  seat,  and  burst  into  tears  im- 
mediately. The  very  unwontedness  of  such  con- 
duct on  her  part,  as  the  modern  young  lady,  made 
it  only  the  more  impress 

"  Darling,"  she  exclaimed,  all  her  bravado 
failing  her,  "  a  dreadful  thing  is  happening;  and 
nobody  else  knows.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come, 
to  help  me  and  advise  me.  This  bother  about 
the  parson  at  Reading  who  wasn't  in  orders  at 
all  is  unhinging  Daddy's  mind.  I  don't  know 
what  has  happened  to  him.  He  thinks  he  isn't 
a  clergyman  himself  at  all.  I'm  afraid  to  leave 
him  one  minute  alone,  for  fear  he  should  tell 
Mother.  So  far,  he  has  told  no  one  but 
I  believe;  but  this  morning  he's  full  of  it.  He 
ran  over  to  Oxford  before  breakfast,  like  a  mad- 
man, and  came  back  quite  flurried.  He's  firmly 
convinced  he  has  done  the  same  thing  him- 
and  committed  the  sin  of  Korah,  Dathan,  and 
A-\\hat'-hi--name." 

Alex  took  her  hand   in  his.     "  Dearest,"   he 


EVELYN   ACTS.  27 1 

whispered  very  low;  "  and  I  thought  I  was  com- 
ing to  make  you  so  happy." 

"  So  you  do,  Alex;  so  you  do;  I  love  to  have 
you  with  me:  but,  it's  so  dreadful  about  Daddy. 
And  do  you  know  what  he's  just  done — posted 
a  letter  to  Sir  Nathaniel  to  say  that  he  withdraws 
his  recommendation. '•' 

Alex  whistled  to  himself.  "  That's  bad,"  he 
answered.  "  We  must  counteract  that.  Though 
I  suppose  of  course  he  gave  the  real  reason." 

"Yes,  in  part;  but  not  quite  as  badly  as  he 
gave  it  to  me.  Not  so  definitely  I  mean.  He 
dealt  more  in  generalities.  But  I  can  see  his  mind 
is  going;  I've  been  afraid  of  it  for  weeks.  I 
never  knew  him  worry,  not  even  over  the  chain- 
makers'  strike  at  Cradley,  as  he's  worried  over 
this  business.  And  he  came  to  me  this  morning 
with  the  wildest  story.  Oh,  quite  an  absurd 
story!" 

"  About  himself?  " 

"  Yes.  He  says  he  isn't  himself  at  all,  but 
some  other  person.  A  common  sailor.  You 
know,  there  was  a  man  blown  up  by  those  pirate 
people  in  the  Pacific  somewhere  when  Daddy 
was  nearly  killed; — I've  heard  the  story  so  often 
that  I  forget  the  details — and  it  told  upon  him 
terribly  at  the  time,  I've  heard  Mums  say,  so 
that  he  could  never  be  induced  to  allude  to  it 


272 


THi  \L    BISHOP. 


afterwards.  Well,  that  was  one  thing  that  un- 
hinged his  mind  a  little  once;  and  now,  this  other 
thing  coming  up,  he's  gone  back  to  that  again, 

1  declares  he  isn't  himself  at  all,  that  his  name 
ifl  never  Cecil  Glisson,  and  that  he's  really  this 
dead  sailor,  Tom  Pringle  or  something." 

\\  hat  an  extraordinary  idea!     But,  Evey, 
you  ought  at  once  to  see  a  doctor." 

"  It  would  break  Mother's  heart.  And  then, 
the  disgrace  of 

"  But  you  can't  keep  it  all  to  yourself.    Other 
people  must  know  soon.    And  the  trouble  is  too 
much  for  you.     You  must  have  advice  about 
When  do  you  go  up  to  town?  " 
To-morrow  morning,  darling.     I  suppose  I 
can  sleep  here?  " 

"  Of  course.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  came. 
Yes,  I'll  do  as  you  say.  I'll  go  up  with  you  to- 
morr 

"  But  your  mother " 

"  Mother  or  no;  this  is  no  time  to  stand  upon 
trifles.   "Besides,  chaperons  are  abolished:  Madge 
e  an  anachronism.     I'll  go  with  you, 
Alex;  and  I'll  see  Sir  Nathaniel." 

"  Evey,  you're  sure  it's  a  delusion?  You're 
sure  he  has  fancies?  It  can't  be  true?  You  see, 
we  mustn't  force  his  hand, — drive  him  into  a 
confession,  must  we?  " 


EVELYN   ACTS.  273 

"  Alex,  do  you  think  I  don't  know  my  own 
father  better  than  that — the  dear  darling?  Why, 
he  couldn't  tell  a  lie,  not  if  his  life  depended  on  it. 
Even  now,  in  this  delusion,  he  never  thinks  of 
himself;  he  thinks  only  of  the  effect  upon  me 
and  Mother.  It's  just  a  freak  of  conscience.  He 
has  brooded  on  the  wickedness  of  this  man  at 
Reading  so  long  that  he  begins  to  believe  he's 
done  the  same  himself.  But  he  couldn't  do  it, 
poor  dear;  he's  a  vast  deal  too  innocent.  Why, 
he  couldn't  go  on  with  it  for  two  days  together. 
He'd  let  it  out  in  half  an  hour;  he  could  never 
keep  up  a  great  organised  deception.  Though 
if  he'd  really  done  it,  it  wouldn't  much  matter 
either;  for  whatever  he  does,  it's  his  nature  to 
,  do  it  for  sufficient  reasons." 

"  Evey,  what  faith  you  have!  You  are  a  true 
woman." 

"  Faith  in  the  men  I  love,  Alex;  yes,  faith  to 
the  very  end.  Not  faith  that  they'll  never  do 
wrong;  I  don't  care  for  that  kind;  but  faith  in 
them  still  even  if  I  know  they  have  done  it.  I 
told  him  so  just  now.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me 
whether  it's  true  or  not,  so  far  as  that  goes. 
He's  still  himself.  And  do  you  think  something 
he  once  did  before  I  was  born  is  going  to  blot 
out  the  memory  of  all  these  years  that  I  have 
lived  and  known  him — the  memory  of  what  he 


is  and  always  has  been?     1  should  think  of  him 
the  same  if  you  could  prove  to  me  this  minute 
that  he  committed  a  murder  in  New  South  Wales 
thirty   years  ago.      I   should   say:    *  Poor  dc 
what  could  have  driven  him  to  do  it?'" 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

OFFICIAL    INTELLIGENCE. 

BY  the  first  train  next  morning,  Evelyn  went 
up  to  Paddington.  In  these  latter  days  of  the 
decline  and  fall  of  the  chaperon,  on  which  she 
had  insisted,  her  mother  did  not  even  attempt 
to  prevent  her.  The  bicycle  has  entailed  a  gen- 
eral decadence  of  chaperonage.  She  went  openly 
with  Alex,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  door 
of  the  Education  Office.  There,  she  sent  up  her 
card  to  Sir  Nathaniel,  with  the  pencilled  words 
"A.  T.  is  here  also;  but  he  can  wait.  My  need 
is  urgent." 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  Private  Secretary  with  a 
most  official  face,  a  big  black  moustache,  and  a 
languid  drawl,  came  down  to  the  waiting  room. 
"  Sir  Nathaniel  will  see  you  at  once,"  he  drawled 
out.  Very  pale  and  trembling,  Evelyn  followed 
him  up  to  the  great  man's  sanctum. 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  Sir  Nathaniel 
leaned  back  in  his  revolving  chair,  folded  his 
hands  before  him,  and  stared  hard  in  her  face  with 

275 


276  THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

comical  resignation.  <>u  are  bent   upon 

making  a  job  of  it?  "  he  murmured  slowly.    "  You 
mean  to  turn  out   the  Government!     A; 

are,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  this  action  of 

irs  makes  the  appointment  of  your  protege 
— let  us  call  him  your  protege  still — it  preve 
complications — absolutely   impossible?  " 

Evelyn  half  broke  down;  tears  floated  in  her 
eyes.  "Oh,  Sir  Nathaniel."  she  burst  out,  I 
haven't  come  about  that.  I've  come  about  Papa. 
A  terrible  thing  has  happened.  Have  you  read 
his  1. 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  no,"  the  Secret 
ed,  astonished.     "  Is  it  as  bad  as  all  tl 
He  turned  over  a  great   pile  of  corresponds 
that  lay  littered  in  front  of  him.     "  Here  it 
he  said.  "  unread.     Tutnell  told  me  it  was  im- 
portant; but    I   haven't    had   time  to  glance  at 
it."     He  skimmed  through  it  hastily.     Then  his 
face  grew  gr;  Well,  what  does  thi-  m 

he  asked,  with  a  dim  ini^ivini:.     It  seemed  to 

1>ode  evil.  He  half  suspected  what  Kvelyn 
herself  had  fancied — an  open  scandal.  Could  the 
Bishop  have  run  away  with  some  other  man's 
housemaid?  " 

"Papa  wrote  that  letter,"  Evelyn  said, 
schooling  herself  to  talk  calmly,  "  under  the  in- 
fluence of — well,  very  intense  emotion.  I  saw 


OFFICIAL    INTELLIGENCE. 


277 


it  when  he  had  finished;  and  I'm  afraid — Sir 
Nathaniel,  help  me  out  with  this,  do;  I'm  afraid 
he  wrote  it  in  a  fit  of  delusion." 

"  Clearly,"  Sir  Nathaniel  answered  with  the 
promptitude  of  an  official  whose  business  it  is 
to  explain  away  everything. 

"  Well, — that's  all,"  Evelyn  said,  and  glanced 
up  at  him  tearfully. 

She  looked  so  much  prettier,  so  much  ten- 
derer, so  much  more  womanly  that  day,  in  her 
simple  morning  dress  with  her  tearful  eyes,  than 
he  had  ever  before  seen  her  that  Sir  Nathaniel 
was  touched.  He  rose  and  moved  over  toward 
her.  Then  he  laid  one  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
took  hers  in  the  other.  He  was  a  kind  old  friend, 
and  Evelyn  let  him  hold  it. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  un- 
wonted softness,  "  that  is  enough.  I  see  it  clearly 
now.  This  trouble  about  that  rascal  at  Reading 
has  told  upon  his  overworked  brain.  But  we 
may  set  all  straight  yet.  Does  Mrs.  Glisson 
know  of  it?  " 

"  No,"  Evelyn  answered.  "  Thank  Heaven, 
no."  She  had  grown  into  a  woman  at  once. 
"  And  I  want  to  spare  her,"  she  went  on.  "  If 
she  knows,  it  will  kill  her.  Daddy  has  been  every- 
thing in  the  world  to  Mother.  Nobody  has 
heard  but  myself.  I  only  tell  you  because  he 


278  'nil  !OP- 

•  ic  that  letter.     I  want  you  to  take  no  I 
ami  I  want  you  to  advice  me  what  to  do  about  it." 

Sir  Nathaniel  took  counsel  with  his  watch. 
He  was  accustomed  to  acting  with  prompt  it  r. 
N  young  Thornbury  here  now?  "  he  asked. 
s.     He  came  up  to  town  with  me/' 
Nathaniel  hummed  and  hawed,  and  beat 
a  devil's  tattoo  with   his  fingers  on  the  table. 
"  Ilr  mustn't   Stop/1   he  answered,  after  a  delib- 
era  Under   the   circumstances,    it 

•tild  be  impossible  for  me  to  see  him  to-day. 
Let  me  think;  he  must  go;  but  where  can  he 
ou  later?     Say  at  the  confectioner's  at 
the  bottom  of  Regent  Street.     You  know  it.   I 
suppose.     That  will  do.  won't 

"  Perfectly.  red. 

The  great  man  wrote  three  lines  and  pi,: 
them  in  an  envelope.    Then  he  rang  a  hand-bell. 
"  For  Mr.  Thornbury,"  he  said;  "  in  the  waiting 
room  below;  to  cancel  appointment." 

The  Private  Secretary  took  it  and  nodded. 

"  Now,  look  here,  Evey,"  Sir  Nathaniel  went 
on — "  I  may  call  you  Evey,  mayn't   I,  as  I'm 

t  going  to  disappoint  you?    You  are  a  voting 
lady   who   thoroughly   understands   official    1 
guage." 

"  I  trust  so,"   Kvelyn  answered  with  a  faint 
access  of  hope. 


OFFICIAL   INTELLIGENCE.  279 

"  Yes,  you  do/'  the  man  of  office  said,  clinch- 
ing it.  "  And  you  also  understand  official  neces- 
sities. Most  girls  are  born  fools;  you  happen  to 
belong  to  the  opposite  category.  You  will  see 
at  once  that  your  coming  here  this  morning 
with  Mr.  Thornbury  and  trying  to  see  me  was 
extremely  ill-timed.  In  point  of  fact,  fatal. 
Therefore  I  should  like  to  assure  you  categoric- 
ally that  before  you  arrived — last  night  in  fact — 
I  had  already  made  up  my  mind  not  to  appoint 
Mr.  Thornbury,  but  another  person.  To  that 
resolution  I  must  adhere.  Do  you  thoroughly 
comprehend  me?  " 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  His  eyes  met 
hers.  Evelyn  glanced  at  them  from  under  her 
eyelids  with  unwonted  timidity.  Even  her  ir- 
reverent soul  was  awed  for  the  moment  by  the 
gravity  of  the  situation.  "  I — I  think  I  follow/' 
she  faltered  dubiously. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  you  do,"  Sir  Na- 
thaniel answered,  laying  his  hand  again  gently 
on  the  poor  child's  shoulder.  "  I'm  sorry  to  dis- 
appoint you,  Evey;  but — exigencies  of  state, 
you  know:  the  service  is  the  service,  and  the 
country  is  exacting.  Therefore,  your  friend 
must  not  expect  this  appointment." 

Evelyn  lifted  her  eyes  timidly.  "  Oh,  thank 
you/'  she  said  with  a  very  short  gasp. 


THE    INCIPFN'I 

Sir  Nathaniel  froze.  "  There  is  nothing  at 
all  to  thank  me  for;  quite  the  contrary,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Evelyn  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  "Then 
thank  you  for  nothing,"  she  broke  out  with  a 
spice  of  her  usual  devilry. 

"  That's  better;  that's  better!  Now  we  un- 
derstand one  another.  You  will  break  it  to  young 
Thornbury — unofficially,  of  course?  That's  « 
cellect — excellent.  Evey,  you're  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  and  sensible  girls  I  know.  If  you 
were  a  man,  I  think  I  would  appoint  you  my  pri- 
vate secretary.  You  have  a  head  on  your  shoul- 
der 

hank  you  again,  Sir  Nathaniel." 

The  official  smiled  coldly.  But  the  corner  of 
his  eye  belied  his  mouth.  It  was  almost  human. 

Well,  ha  that  point  for  evr 

he  said  dryly,  "  and  made  it  quite  clear  that  noth- 
ing can  be  dor  :nay  as  well  get  on  to  the 
other  business.  Stop;  one  moment;  before  we 
pass  on,  tell  Thornbury  that  he  had  better  say 
nothing  about  it.  I  think  I  shall  now  delay  the 
•it  for  a  fortnight,  in  order  to  make 
enquiries  about  suitable  persons.  You  may  tell 
him — not  from  me.  but  as  a  private  hint  from 
yourself, — that  you  believe  the  other  man  will 
receive  the  post,  let  us  say  in  ten  days  or  so." 


OFFICIAL   INTELLIGENCE.  28l 

Evelyn  nodded  her  head.  "  Oh,  thank  you, 
thank  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Sir  Nathaniel  continued.  "  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  say  thank  you.  It's  embar- 
rassing, very.  Such  a  compromising  word.  If 
Tutnell  happened  to  come  in,  he  might  foolishly 
suppose  I  had  been  promising  you  something. 
And  it  is  against  our  principles  in  this  office  ever 
to  make  any  promises  to  anybody." 

"  I  will  take  care  not  to  countenance  such  a 
foolish  misconception,"  Evelyn  replied  demurely. 

"  That's  well,"  the  official  went  on.  "  Now, 
let  us  talk  about  your  father.  This  is  bad  news, 
Evey.  I'm  distressed  to  hear  it." 

Evelyn  broke  down  again,  this  time  sobbing 
outright.  Sir  Nathaniel  leant  over  her  in  com- 
ical agitation.  "  My  dear  child,"  he  cried,  "  my 
dear  child,  not  that,  whatever  you  do!  Suppose 
somebody  were  to  come  in?  So  very  unofficial!  " 

Evelyn  did  her  best  to  dry  her  eyes,  not  quite 
successfully.  Sir  Nathaniel  bent  over  her,  and 
tried  to  soothe  her.  After  a  while  she  grew 
calmer,  and  told  her  little  story  as  well  as  she 
was  able,  suppressing  part,  but  mentioning 
enough  to  let  the  Secretary  judge  the  gravity 
of  the  situation.  He  listened  attentively;  then 
he  said  at  last:  "Of  course  this  is  all  delusion. 
His  letter  to  me  shows  even  that  he  had  not 


THE    INCIDKM  AI.    I:I>HOP. 

fully  made  up  his  mind  at  the  moment  when  he 
wrote,  what  particular  form  the  delusion  should 
take.    It  is  vague  and  general.    But  I  don't  think 
there  is  cause  for  any  serious  alarm.     Your  fa: 
is  not  a  man  of  the  insane  temperament.    He 
systematically  overworked  himself,  and  may  ]\ 
a  passing  attack  like  this,  due  to  nothing  more 
than  disordered  nerves.     But  he  will  never  go 
mad;  you  may  take  my  word  for  it. " 

"  You  think  not?"  EveK  •  -rasping  at 

this  ray  of  hope  with  profuse  gratitude. 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  the  man  of  experience 
answered.     "  Remember.   I  was  a  doctor  m\ 
before  I  went  into  politics;  and   I   can  tell  you 
one  thing  about  madness  that  may  comfort  you. 

anity  is  a  disease  of  the  selfish  temperament. 
It  occurs  only  or  almost  only  among  the  self- 
centred.  Go  to  an  asylum  any  day  and  hear 
what  the  patients  have  to  tell  you;  it  is  I,  I,  I, 
from  beginning  to  end.  Never  some  other  p 
son.  7  am  the  Queen  of  England,  /  am  the 
prophet  Mahomet,  7  am  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. /  have  come  into  a  large  sum  of  money, 

:n  in  the  depths  of  mi-  '  <le>titminn.  / 

am  beini;  persecuted  \>\   the  police,  7  am  the   . 
tim  of  a  conspiracy  which  haunts  me  every  win 
But  not  one  patient  is  ever  thinking.  That  man 
there  is  the  Emperor  of  Germany:  that   woman 


OFFICIAL    INTELLIGENCE.  283 

is  the  wife  of  the  prophet  Mahomet;  my  friends 
are  being  persecuted;  my  son  or  my  cousin  has 
come  into  an  immense  fortune.  It  is  all  as  per- 
sonal as  personal  can  be;  no  love,  no  sympathy, 
no  thought  for  others." 

"  That's  not  in  the  least  like  Daddy/'  Evelyn 
answered  with  conviction.  "  Whatever  is  the 
matter,  he  is  always  the  same — the  most  unselfish 
of  men.  He  thinks  about  Mums,  about  me, 
about  the  chain-makers,  about  his  poor  people, 
till  I  sometimes  feel  inclined  to  say:  '  Oh,  bother 
the  poor,  Daddy;  do  remember  that  you  too 
have  a  soul  to  save  and  a  body  to  take  care  of! ' 
Even  since  this  began  I  can  see  it's  the  mar- 
riages he  has  performed  and  the  people  he  has 
ordained  that  most  of  all  trouble  him.  He  never 
thinks  of  himself;  he  thinks  about  the  scandal 
and  the  disgrace  to  the  episcopacy,  and  the  way 
dear  Mother  would  be  horrified  to  learn  it." 

'  Then  you  may  be  sure  it  will  pass,"  Sir 
Nathaniel  said  with  promptitude.  "  That  is  not 
serious  madness.  Madness  has  only  two  springs: 
one  is  selfishness,  pure  piggish  selfishness:  the 
other  is  like  unto  it — stolid  family  placidity.  A 
man  of  varied  interests  never  goes  mad.  And 
I'll  tell  you  what  you'd  better  do;  you'd  better 
get  Yate-Westbury  to  run  down  with  you  acci- 
dentally, and  report  upon  your  father.  Stop  a 
19 


THI          •  '^    r.i>HOP. 

nun  Sir    Nathaniel    consulted    his    \\-atch 

once  more.  "Shall  I?  Yes,  han-  it  all.  I  :,•///; 
I  can  talk  out  the  deputation  in  twenty  minutes. 
Sheer  politeness  will  do  it:  agree  with  them  all 
round,  and  commit  myself  to  nothing.  The 
deputation  withdraws,  much  pleased  with  its  re- 
ception. There's  a  train  at  a  quarter  to  three. 
I  could  catch  that,  I  think.  I  know  Yate-West- 
bury.  I'll  go  round  and  drag  him  away,  patients 
or  no  patients.  Your  father's  condition  is  clearly 
critical;  and  such  a  man  as  he  is  worth  many 
sparrov  -atients  are  mo 

jackdav  estlmry  must  come.     I'll  meet 

raddington.  Now.  off  to  your  disap- 
pointed friend,  and  break  the  news  to  him  gently 
that  he  must  give  up  all  hopes  of  obtaining 

pectorship!  "     lie  bowed  her  out  with  a  soft 
touch  on  the  shoulder 

ii  minutes  later  Ev<  I  lunching  with 

afe  in  Regent 
with  r  '•  \\V11.  Nathaniel's  the 

t  clear,  bar  one.  that  ever  v 

been  jr  :  to  me.    And  b  ie,  officially 

. — T    mean,    in    official  ttTVCy — 

that  in  f  Dadily's  letter  you  should  1- 

the  inspectorship  before  the  end  of  a  fortnight." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    BISHOP    TURNS. 

THEY  travelled  down  to  Dorchester  together 
— Sir  Nathaniel,  Yate-Westbury,  Evelyn,  and 
Alex  Thornbury,  the  only  four  people,  save  old 
Dr.  Littlemore,  who  had  learned  the  secret  of 
the  Bishop's  delusion. 

The  great  specialist  was  very  consoling,  on 
the  way,  to  Evelyn.  He  made  light  of  the  dan- 
ger. It  was  arranged  that  he  should  assume 
the  part  of  a  person  who  had  come  down  in  search 
of  a  building  site  somewhere  near  the  river,  and 
should  be  introduced  to  the  Palace  by  Sir  Na- 
thaniel, who  was  supposed  to  have  met  him 
casually  at  the  station.  This  would  prevent  un- 
necessary alarm  on  the  patient's  part.  But  Yate- 
Westbury  echoed  Sir  Nathaniel's  own  opinion 
as  to  the  Bishop's  state  of  mind.  He  made  Eve- 
lyn retail  to  him  her  father's  symptoms;  then  he 
leaned  back  at  last  on  the  padded  cushions  of 
his  first  class  carriage  and  answered  with  easy 
conviction:  *"  Oh,  there  can't  be  much  the  mat- 
285 


286  'IH1-    INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 

ur  with  him,  Miss  Glisson.     It  doesn't  take  them 
so.     Not  that  way  madness  lies.    A  passing  h 
u-rical  illusion,  perhaps;  no  more.    He'll  get  1 
ter  of  it  soon  with  rest  and  change — a  month  in 
the  Engadine.     Dismiss  the  trouble  from  your 
mind  for  the  present.     I'll  tell  you  more  about 
it  after  I've  had  a  chat  with  him." 

At  the  station,  they  separated.  Evelyn  and 
Alex  walked  up  by  themselves  to  the  Palace;  Sir 
Nathaniel  and  Yate-Westbury  drove  after  tl 
in  a  fly  twenty  minutes  later.  Might  they  see 
the  Bishop?  The  Bishop,  much  perturbed,  came 
out  into  the  drawing-room  to  see  them. 

Sir  Nathaniel  played  his  part  like  a  diplo- 
matist that  he  was.  He  had  run  down  to  call 
upon  the  Bishop  about  that  little  matter  of  the 
letter,  which  had  somewhat  disquieted  him;  but 
at  the  same  time,  he  had  happened  to  meet  at 
the  station  his  friend  Mr.  Augustus  Egerton,  a 
North  Country  manufacturer — "you  know  the 
firm — Wells,  Egerton,  and  Backhouse,"  he  in: 
posed  in  a  stage  aside — who  was  looking  out  for 
a  place  on  the  river  where  he  could  build  a  bunga- 
low and  a  suitable  boat-house  for  his  electric 
launch.  lie  wanted  some  pretty  reach  within 
easy  distance  of  Oxford.  "I've  ventured  to 
bring  him  along  with  me,"  he  said,  "  knowing 
that  you  were  a  good  authority  as  to  this  part 


THE   BISHOP   TURNS.  287 

of  the  country;  and  besides  " — confidentially,  in 
another  stage  whisper,  "  the  diocese  of  Dor- 
chester, you  know: — no  large  industrial  towns — 
rich  men  are  not  abundant;  so  if  you  fixed  him 
here  betimes,  you  might  see  the  completion  of 
the  new  transept." 

The  Bishop  turned  to  him  with  a  troubled 
far-away  smile.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  thank  you.  I  have  much  to  think  about.  But 
stone  and  mortar  are  the  least.  And  the  transept 
is  not  just  now  my  first  object." 

They  strolled  out  upon  the  lawn  through  the 
open  window.  Yate-Westbury  began  asking 
some  perfunctory  questions  as  to  land  and  houses 
and  depth  of  water  in-shore  for  steam  launches 
to  approach,  which  the  Bishop  answered  in  the 
same  pre-occupied  manner.  It  was  clear  his  mind 
was  not  in  the  subject.  But  gradually  they  drew 
apart  round  the  far  end  of  the  shrubbery.  There, 
close  to  the  spot  where  Birinus  had  baptised  the 
first  Christians  in  Wessex,  the  Bishop  dropped 
into  a  seat,  and  to  Yate-Westbury's  immense  sur- 
prise, turned  with  sudden  fierceness  on  his  un- 
expected visitor.  "  This  is  a  plot,"  he  said  bit- 
terly. "  A  mean,  lying  plot.  An  attempt  against 
my  sanity.  I  know  you,  sir:  I  know  you.  Eve- 
lyn should  not  have  done  this.  It  is  a  wicked 
conspiracy." 


THE    INCIDENTAL   RT>H 

The  specia  1  him  hard.     His  mind 

shaken  at  first  from  the  decision  he  had  given 
beforehand  to  Miss  Glisson.  Conspiracy — a  plot? 
Surely  the  very  vocabulary  of  madness! 

\Vhy,  how  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  in  his 
most  honeyed  and  candid  manner — with  the 
mock  candour  of  the  mad  doctor,  transparently 
artificial. 

The  Bishop  astonished  him  by  flaring  out  his 
answer  at  once         Yes.  a  conspiracy,  I  tell  you; 
and  I  am  not  well  pleased  that    my  daugh 
should  have  contrived  it.     She  is  driving  me  to 
bay,  and  heaven  only  k  .it  mi -fortune  may 

come  of  it — for  my  poor  dear  \\ife.  to  spare 
whom  I  would  gladly  die  in  torture.  Ah. 
think  I  don't  know  you;  hut  I  do.  very  well. 
I  -aw  through  this  tiling  the  moment  Sir  Xa- 
thaniel  introduced  you  just  now  under  an  as- 
sumed name.  You  are  not  Mr.  Egerton;  you 
are  Dr.  Yate-\Ye<t!>ury.  the  B|  •  -m  in-an- 

ity.  I  sat  with  you  nine  months  ago  on  the 
same  platform  at  a  meeting  in  St.  James's  Hall; 
and  I  have  seen  you  <ince  more  than  once  in 
the  street  in  London." 

The  specialist  was  taken  abaek.  "  Oh,  in- 
deed?' "  was  all  he  could  answer.  "  I  go  about 
a  good  deal  up  and  down  in  England." 

"  Yes;  and  you  have  come  here  to-day  to  see 


THE   BISHOP   TURNS.  289 

whether  I  am  mad.  Well,  Dr.  Yate-Westbury, 
I  wish  to  heaven  I  was.  It  would  save  a  great 
deal  of  misery  to  everybody.  But  I  am  worse 
than  mad;  that  would  be  disgrace  enough  in 
itself  for  my  poor  wife  and  daughter;  yet  not  so 
bad  as  the  disgrace  I  must  ultimately  bring  upon 
them.  What  has  Evelyn  told  you?  Let  me  hear 
that  first.  She  is  driving  me  hard,  and  I  must 
know  how  far  she  has  driven  me  in  this  matter." 

"  Miss  Glisson  merely  said,"  the  specialist 
answered,  making  a  clear  breast  of  it,  "  that  you 
had  told  her  what  she  frankly  described  as  a  cock- 
and-bull  story,  about  your  life  in  Melanesia;  that 
the  cock-and-bull  story  was  so  obviously  false 
that  it  had  alarmed  her  for  your  safety;  and  that 
acting  on  Sir  Nathaniel  Merriton's  advice, — very 
sound  advice,  as  a  rule — she  wished  me  to  see 
you  and  to  report  upon  your  sanity.  There  now, 
you  observe,  I  have  unreservedly  exposed  the 
whole  wicked  conspiracy.  I  have  been  perfectly 
frank  with  you;  be  frank  with  me  in  return,  and 
tell  me  the  nature  of  this  trouble  that  weighs 
upon  you." 

The  Bishop  turned  upon  him  and  looked  him 
through  and  through.  "  Dr.  Yate-Westbury," 
he  said  slowly,  "  this  is  no  case  for  you,  but  for  a 
higher  tribunal.  It  was  asked  long  ago  of  one 
of  your  sort,  '  Canst  thou  minister  to  a  mind  dis- 


THE    INCIDENTAL   BISHOP. 

eased? '  and  the  disease  was  of  the  same  kind  as 
with  me, — remorse,  and  horror  for  wrong  done, 
irrevocable.  What  that  wrong  was,  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you.  My  daughter  has  not  told 
you;  for  that  crumb  of  comfort  I  am  grateful  to 
Providence.  I  have  lain  awake  all  night  long, 
wondering  whether  the  easiest  way  out  of  it 
uld  not  be  by  flinging  myself  here  into  the 
river.  I  am  a  good  swimmer;  I  could  stem  the 
weir  there:  yet  I  am  sure  I  have  self-control 
enough  to  abstain  from  swimming,  even  when  I 

the  death-gurgle  fighting  in  my  throat,  if 
that  were  necessary  for  my  wife's  and  my  daugh- 
s  happiness.     But  I  have  weighed  in 

the  balance,  and  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
Miicide  is  not  the  best  way  out.  What  I  say  to 
you  now,  I  say  in  confidence.  I  have  wrestled  in 
prayer  all  night  long,  beseeching  the  Lord  to 
let  me  die  befo  -ecret  is  out,  for  my  wife's 

sake  and  my  daughter's;  and  I  almost  feel  as 
though  my  prayer  would  be  answered.  I  have 
not  prayed  for  forgiveness  for  myself,  but  that 
my  sin  should  not  be  visited  on  those  innocent 
heads.  But  I  cannot  kill  myself,  for  their  s, 
though  to  kill  myself  would  perhaps  be  the  safest 

in  the  end  to  save  them.  That  is  all  I  think 
about.  If  only  I  could  die,  and  still  keep  tin- 
secret,  every ti  veil.  But  Evelyn 


THE   BISHOP   TURNS. 


29I 


is  making  it  hard  for  the  secret  to  be  kept.  The 
very  wife  and  child  for  whose  sake  I  would  die, 
carrying  my  secret  with  me,  are  striving  their 
best  to  drag  the  truth  out  of  me." 

Yate-Westbury  leaned  forward  with  profes- 
sional interest  and  watched  the  patient  closely. 
He  was  probing  the  man's  eyes,  scanning  the 
twitch  of  his  mouth,  noting  his  eager  fingers. 
By  dexterous  side-questions — seeming  to  agree, 
seeming  to  differ — acquiescing,  expostulating — 
the  great  specialist  slowly  drew  him  out.  On 
the  subject  of  his  supposed  sin,  the  Bishop  firmly 
declined  to  say  anything;  he  was  reticence  it- 
self;  he  merely  declared  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  irrevocably  never  again  to  perform  any 
sacred  office.  "  I  put  the  thing  from  me/'  he 
said  succinctly.  But  on  the  subject  of  his  gen- 
eral health,  his  devotion  to  Olive  and  Evelyn, 
his  remorse  and  anguish,  he  was  articulate  and 
even  voluble.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  thought 
mad;  and  he  knew  himself  sane.  The  stigma 
on  Evelyn  alone  would  have  deterred  him  from 
seeking  that  outlet.  Nay  more,  it  was  part  of 
his  penance  that  he  must  endure  his  punishment ; 
and  if  the  punishment  came,  he  would  endure  it 
manfully.  But  to  be  taken  for  mad  would  be 
to  shirk  the  penalty:  nor  could  he  have  Evelyn 
falsely  branded  as  a  madman's  daughter.  What 


THE    INCini- N  I  M.    I  ISH 


he  had  done  he  would  pay  for;  but  he  would  not 
let  his  innocent  daughter  pay  for  what  he  had 
never  done,  nor  been,  nor  dreamt  of. 

He  spoke  long  and  earnestly.  Vat e -West- 
bury  listened  with  keen  professional  eagerness. 
At  the  end  of  the  interview,  the  doctor  went  off 
to  seek  the  man  of  office.  Sir  Nathaniel  was  in 
the  drawing-room,  stretching  his  big  legs  un- 
easily in  a  long  wicker  chair,  and  trying  to  make 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Glisson  and  Evelyn. 
•i»ury  drew  him  aside  and  beckoned 
him  out  on  to  the  lawn.  They  paused  behind 
the  lilacs.  -Well?"  Sir  Nathaniel  said  cnquir- 
Yt»u  find  his  brain  touched?" 

••Mifident  .'u;  v'ln 

crushing  force.     "  No;  not  in  the  least  degree; 
the  man's  as  sane  as  you  are.     Whatever  it  v 
he  has  really  done  it." 
You  are  sun 

"  \\ -\er  was  more  certain  of  a  case  in  my  life. 
The  symptoms  are  obvious.     Remorse,  not  ni 
ness.      I've  watched  his  face,  his  iis  ges- 

tures.    He's  deeply  agitated,  acting  under  the 
influence  of  some   profound   emotion;    but 
strictly  normal.     Emotion,  I  should  say,  of 
overpowering  character,  affecting  a  man  built 
on  the  exact  opposite  lines  from  the  insai 
perament — a  many-sided,  wholesome,  hard-work- 


THE   BISHOP   TURNS.  293 

ing,  honest,  well-meaning  man,  who  has  been 
hurried  into  some  crime,  perhaps  a  small  one,  and 
is  suffering  for  it  exaggerated  regret  and  agony.'* 

Sir  Nathaniel  gave  a  long  low  "Whew!" 
"  That's  bad,"  he  answered,  stopping  dead  short: 
"  about  as  bad  as  it  can  be.  The  other  thing 
would  be  better.  If  he  isn't  mad,  my  dear 
fellow,  he's — well,  whatever  he  is,  he's  not  a 
'  bishop." 

"  You  think  it " 

"  Yes:  criminal." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  they  talked  it 
over  for  a  while,  Sir  Nathaniel,  on  second 
thoughts,  regretting  at  once  his  hasty  admis- 
sion. "  At  least,"  he  said  after  a  while,  "  you 
will  treat  this  expression  of  opinion  as  confiden- 
tial. You  are  here  professionally,  and  you  will 
not  divulge  a  professional  secret.  We  may  save 
a  scandal  yet.  What  will  you  say  to  Miss  Glis- 
son?" 

'The  simple  truth;  it  is  always  easiest.  'I 
have  examined  your  father,  and  find  him  per- 
fectly sane  and  normal.  He  is  suffering  merely 
from  excessive  emotion/  She  must  put  her  own 
explanation  upon  it." 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE    BISHOP    DECIDES. 

IT  was  Saturday  evening.  Sir  Nathaniel  and 
Yate-\Yestbury  spent  the  night  at  the  Palace. 
The  great  specialist  had  doubts  at  first  whether 
it  was  well  for  him  to  stay;  he  feared  lest  his 
presence  might  be  misinterpreted  both  by  the 
Bishop  and  by  others.  But  Evelyn  settled  the 
question  for  him  with  the  imperiousness  of  her 
age  and  generation  Y«>u  niu-t  stop,"  she  - 
quietly  It'-  Utur  for  Daddy,  and  better  for 
Mums  too.  You  have  reassured  our  inimls:  and 
whatever  is  the  matter  with  him,  he's  not  at 

So  you  had  better  wait  on  and  see  how 
he  is  in  the  morning." 

It   was  a  gloomy  dinner  party.     The  cloud 
brooded  over  them  all.     Evelyn  and  Alex  m; 

ain  pretence  of  keeping  things  lively;  and  the 
man  of  politics  tried  to  engage  the  Bishop  in 
talk  about  the  progress  of  events  in  that  eternal 
East,  which  resembles  the  poor  in  being  alw. 
with    us.      But    nothing  could   dispel    the   di 


THE   BISHOP   DECIDES. 


295 


gloom  that  had  settled  on  the  Bishop.  He  ate 
his  dinner  in  silence,  conscious  of  doom,  and 
with  the  fate  of  thousands  of  souls  weighing 
clown  his  conscience.  Worst  of  all,  he  had  still 
the  deadly  problem  of  Olive.  As  she  sat  and 
faced  him,  with  her  calm  middle-aged  comeliness, 
as  beautiful  in  his  eyes  that  evening  as  when  he 
saw  her  first  on  the  verandah  at  Sydney,  he  could 
not  conceive  how  he  was  ever  to  break  the  truth 
to  her.  That  he  had  never  been;  that  she  had 
never  married  him;  that  all  their  life  together 
was  a  lie  and  a  delusion!  No  wonder  he  shrank 
from  that  terrible  confession,  that  the  man  she 
had  loved,  had  honoured,  had  married,  was  ut- 
terly non-existent,  and  that  in  his  place  stood 
a  mendacious  run-away  sailor,  masquerading  as 
priest,  as  bishop,  and  as  philanthropist. 

That  he  was  all  these  save  in  the  accident  of 
ordination  was  nothing  to  the  purpose.  He  was 
too  ecclesiasticised  himself,  and  had  too  much 
trained  his  wife  to  the  ecclesiastical  standpoint, 
for  that  to  matter  to  either  of  them. 

The  Bishop  retired  early.  He  went  to  his 
own  room,  not  because  he  hoped  for  sleep, — 
sleep  was  now  a  rare  visitor — but  because  he 
thought  it  easier  at  least  to  be  alone  than  to 
make  the  hateful  pretence  of  talking  about  trifles 
when  his  soul  was  elsewhere.  He  locked  his 


296  THE 


BIS1 


door  and   knelt    down    to   pray.  finally 

or  by  in>tinct  a  religious  man.  prayer  had  become 
to  him  with  time  a  professional  reality.  He  had 
grown  devout  by  mere  clerical  habit.  It  was  his 
nature  to  throw  himself  vividly  into  all  that  he 
undertook.  He  had  never  allowed  the  irregu- 
larity of  his  manner  of  entering  the  fold  to  inter- 
fere with  his  whole-hearted  acceptance  of  the 
priestly  position  once  he  was  within  it.  He  had 
always  prayed;  of  late,  indeed,  he  had  prayed 
without  ceasing.  He  acknowledged  to  heav 
as  he  acknowledged  to  himself,  the  wrongfnlness 
of  his  dea  too  honest  in  soul  to 

palter  with  omnipotence:  but  he  trusted  that  the 
Searcher  of  hearts,  in  whom  he  fully  believed, 
knowing  all,  would  make  allowance  for  the  sub- 
tlety and   strength  of  the  temptation.      It 
without    fear,   therefore,,  that  the  Bishop  th; 
himself  on  his  knees  before  the  Throne  of  Grace; 
he  wax  praying  from  his  heart,  an  earnest  pi. 
for  others;  and  that  prayer  he  felt  sure  the  worst 
of  men  might  pray  without  sin  at  so  fateful  a 
ttS. 

He  did  not  pray  for  himself, — for  forgiveness, 
for  heaven,  for  some  way  out  of  his  difficulties. 
He  was  utterly  oblivious  of  his  own  salvation. 
He  prayed  for  Olive;  he  prayed  for  Evelyn.  1  !r 
wrestled  with  his  Lord  that  his  innocent  wife 


THE   BISHOP   DECIDES. 


297 


and  child  might  be  spared  this  humiliation.  For 
himself,  he  had  sinned,  and  he  was  willing  to  ex- 
piate that  sin  with  whatever  punishment  Eternal 
Justice  might  see  fit  to  inflict  upon  him;  but  he 
prayed,  with  trembling  lips,  that  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  might  not  be  visited  on  the  children,  that 
the  innocent  wife  might  not  suffer  for  the  guilty 
husband.  He  prayed  with  a  solemn  dread,  for 
he  remembered  only  too  well  that  his  was  the  sin 
of  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram,  and  that  Korah, 
Dathan,  and  Abiram  had  been  swallowed  alive 
by  the  earth,  not  themselves  alone,  but  with  all 
that  appertained  to  them.  Yet  he  wrestled  none 
the  less,  with  great  drops  of  perspiration  stand- 
ing on  his  brow.  He  begged  hard  to  be  pun- 
ished to  the  utmost  of  his  sin,  both  here  and 
hereafter,  if  only  these  little  ones  might  not  suf- 
fer with  him. 

It  was  a  terrible  expiation.  He  endured  it 
like  a  man.  His  one  thought  throughout  was 
that  he  must  save  his  beloved  ones. 

Hour  after  hour  he  prayed  on,  with  feverish 
eagerness.  Then  slowly,  out  of  the  darkness,  a 
gleam  of  light  came  to  him.  He  saw  it  visibly 
stealing  over  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral.  Day 
was  dawning,  and  hope  dawned  with  it. 

He  knew  not  why  he  had  this  sudden  sense 
of  unaccountable  relief — this  strange  feeling  that 


298  TII} 

son  :  yet  be  well  with  him.     \Y 

that  is  to  say,  rather,  with  Olive  and  Kvelyn. 
But  he  did  feel  it  for  all  that;  a  curious  instinct 
which  seemed  to  tell  him  he  was  doomed  himself 
— that  his  body  should  pay  in  endless  torture  for 
his  sin — but  that  Olive  and  Evelyn  should  be 
spared  that  last  misery  of  a  broken  idol.  For  a 
while  he  was  calmer;  something  in  his  head  made 
him  feel  light  and  at  peace.  He  did  not  sleep, 
indeed,  or  desire  to  sleep;  but  he  lay  back  in 
his  easy  chair,  closed  his  eyes,  and  thought  more 

nly.  Had  his  prayer  been  answered?  Were 
Olive  and  Evelyn  to  be  saved  from  this  ex- 
posure? 

All  night  he  had  sat  and  watched  by  the  open 
ifl   the   light   grew   clearer  above   the 
Cathedral   tower,  his  heart   grew  happier  each 
moment.     He  knew  not  why,  but  he  had  confi- 
dence that   his  prayer  had  been  heard.      Yet   he 
dimly   conscious   too    that    he   must    in 
ion.    And  how  could  he  make  reparation 

e  only  by  confession?  And  how  could  he 
confess  save  by  ruining  Olive's  life  for  her?  If 
he  could  but  <lie!  1  lr  leaned  out  of  the  window,  ( 
and  saw  the  river  flow  fast  past  the  spot  where 
Birinus  had  brought  the  faith  of  Christ  to  \Ves- 
sex.  In  that  river  he  could  expiate  his  sin  no 
doubt — and  save  Olive.  But  what  a  poor  v. 


THE   BISHOP   DECIDES. 


299 


of  saving  her!  To  leave  to  her  and  Evelyn  the 
stigma  of  a  suicide's  widow  and  orphan — no,  no, 
he  shrank  from  it.  Easy  enough  to  drown,  of 
course;  but  what  would  come  after  drowning? 
Not  for  himself,  not  for  himself;  he  would  wel- 
come hell,  if  hell  were  the  appointed  way  for  him 
to  make  Olive  happy,  and  to  expiate  his  crime; 
he  was  manly  enough  to  wish  to  bear  his  proper 
penalty.  But  for  Olive?  No,  no;  that  was  not 
the  way  the  Power  that  rules  the  affairs  of  men 
had  ordained  for  her  delivery.  He  would  have 
faith  that  it  would  come;  and  come  it  would 
with  morning. 

And  with  morning  it  came.  A  messenger  at 
the  door,  post  haste  from  Oxford. 

About  five  o'clock  the  Bishop  had  felt  that 
strange  sense  of  relief.  And  about  five  o'clock 
there  had  died  suddenly  at  Oxford  the  one  man 
to  wrhom  he  had  told  the  whole  tale  of  his  decep- 
tion, Dr.  Littlemore  of  Oriel. 

He  knew  instinctively,  as  he  opened  the  letter 
which  the  messenger  brought,  that  it  was  a  mes- 
sage from  the  grave.  He  read  it  through  in  si- 
lence. "  Dr.  Littlemore  died  this  morning  at 
five.  In  his  last  moments,  seized  suddenly  with 
a  spasm  of  heart  disease,  he  was  inarticulately 
anxious  about  the  safety  of  your  soul,  and  about 
some  evil  which  he  expected  the  Church  to  suf- 


3oo 


THE   INCIDENTAL    BISHOP. 


fer  from  you.  He  could  not  be  happy  till  I  had 
promised  him  that  the  moment  he  v  II 

uld  send  a  messenger  at  once  to  tell  you  so. 
He  murmured  frequently,  '  Tell  the  Bishop  of 
Dorchester  he  must  confess  before  men.  As  he 
sinned  before  men,  so  must  he  confess,  openly/ 
I  have  no  idea  to  what  our  dear  friend  referred, 

1  I  have  little  doubt  he  was  labouring  under 
a  delusion.  But  as  he  made  me  promise  him 
most  solemnly  that  I  would  repor  ords  at 

once,  I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  my  bringing  a 
dying  man's  last  wish  to  your  immediate  notice." 
It  was  signed  by  a  scarcely  less  famous  Canon 
of  Christ  Church. 

Then  the  Bishop  knew  all.    He  saw  his  Lo 

.  and  with  a  deadly  struggle,  he  endeavoured 
to  accept  it 

He  cast  himself  down  on  his  knees  once  more, 
and  prayed  with  all  his  soul  that  this  trial  might 
pass  from  him.  But  the  longer  he  ]  the 

more  profoundly  did  the  sense  steal  over  him 
that  he  must  tell  all  out — must  confess  to  Oh 
If  she  waa  to  hear  it  at  all,  she  would  hear  it 

ter  from  his  own  lip<  than  from  any  oth< 
Yet  ho<.  he  to  tell  her?     \\V11.  well,  we  11 

quit   us  like  men,  whatever  happens;    and   the 
It    now  that  to  quit  himself  like  a  man 

3  all  that  was  left  for  him.     He  rose  from  his 


THE   BISHOP  DECIDES. 


301 


knees  once  more  with  a  profound  sense  of  a  duty 
imposed  upon  him.  He  would  drink  his  cup  to 
the  dregs,  and  save  Olive  what  he  could  of  this 
unspeakable  exposure. 

With  a  whirling  head,  he  staggered  rather 
than  walked  into  the  breakfast  room,  and  shook 
hands  mechanically  with  Yate-Westbury  and  Sir 
Nathaniel.  Although  he  shook  hands  with  them, 
he  was  not  conscious  of  their  presence.  Then 
he  turned  to  his  wife,  who  had  spent  the  night 
in  her  own  room,  almost  as  sleepless  as  himself. 
To  stand  near  Olive  was  like  coming  to  anchor 
after  a  storm.  "  Olive,  dearest/'  he  said,  with 
his  never-failing  tenderness  more  apparent  than 
ever,  "  I  want  to  speak  alone  with  you.  I  must 
speak  at  once — in  the  study — before  breakfast. 
No,  Evelyn,  no — "  for  Evelyn  darted  forward 
with  a  glance  of  deprecating  horror;  "  I  must 
have  this  out  now  alone  with  your  mother;  there 
is  no  other  way  possible."  He  waved  her  aside 
gently,  and  took  his  wife's  hand  in  his  own. 
u  Come,  darling,"  he  said,  in  a  soothing  voice. 
"  Come  with  me  to  the  study.  I  have  something 
to  say.  And — I  had  better  say  it." 

Mrs.  Glisson  followed  him  into  the  study  with 
a  strange  foreboding.  The  Bishop  seated  her  in 
a  chair,  and  knelt  beside  her,  with  his  face  laid 
against  her,  like  a  lover.  For  a  moment  he  was 


302 


THI  1USHOP. 


silent.    The  same  pressure  in  his  head  which  he 
noticed  during  the  night  oppressed  and  mini' 
him.     But  he  began  very  softly.     "  Olive.'    he 
said,  "  my  Olive,  for  nearly  thirty  years  we  1; 
lived  together.    Weliave  loved  each  other  dearly. 

i  have  been  to  me  the  best  wife  God  e 
gave  any  man.    You  1  :npathised  with  my 

rk;  you  have  been  light  and  warmth  to  me. 
I  love  you  now  as  I  have  loved  you  ever,  more 
than  I  think  any  other  man  can  ever  have  loved 
and  honoured  the  woman  that  God  gave  him. 
To  cause  you  a  moment's  pain  has  always  been 
hateful  to  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  " — he 
paused  and  hesitated,  stroking  her  hand  mean- 
while with  infinite  tenderness.  "  Olive,"  he  - 
once  more,  "  I  love  you  so  profoundly  that — that 
— that,"  he  let  her  hand  drop  suddenly  and  leant 

head  against  her  once  more.  "  My  darling," 
he  whispered,  "  my  dar — my  d-d-d "  The 

rds  stuck  in  his  throat.  He  could  get  no  fur- 
ther. 

With  a  terrible  effort,  he  strove  to  speak :  luit 
speech  would  not  come  to  him.  He  tried  to 
move  his  tongue.  It  was  tied  and  immovable. 
A  sudden  burst  of  meaning  told  him  all  was  up. 
He  knew  now  what  it  meant.  This  was  clearly 
paralysis. 

And  lie  could  see  the  meaning  of  that  sense 


THE   BISHOP   DECIDES.  303 

of  relief  in  his  head  about  five  o'clock  that  morn- 
ing. A  small  blood-vessel  on  the  brain  must  have 
given  way  then,  and  a  second  one  this  moment. 
His  speech  was  gone.  He  could  not  confess  to 
Olive! 

But  he  must!  But  he  must!  Or  at  least  he 
must  try.  Though  God  grant  his  trying  fail! 
Yet  at  least  he  must  make  the  effort. 

He  prayed  hard  for  failure.  He,  who  had 
never  once  prayed  for  success,  accepting  it  pas- 
sively. But  he  staggered  towards  the  table,  and 
seized  a  pen  with  manful  resolution. 

Trembling  and  dazed,  he  wrote  down  the  first 
few  words  of  an  attempted  confession,  which 
came  to  nothing.  But  before  the  first  line  was 
finished,  his  hand  had  dropped  by  his  side.  He 
could  do  no  more.  Arm  and  tongue  both  failed 
him. 

He  stood  there,  mumbling.  Mrs.  Glisson 
rang  the  bell  and  called  loudly  for  help.  Sir 
Nathaniel  and  Yate-Westbury  came  at  once 
at  her  cry;  so,  a  minute  later,  did  Alex  and 
Evelyn. 

They  carried  the  Bishop  to  bed.  He  lay  on 
his  pillow,  very  quiet.  Though  unable  to  speak 
or  move,  he  was  conscious  of  all  that  was  pass- 
ing around  him.  Yate-Westbury  bent  over  him 
and  examined  him  carefully,  When  he  had  fin- 


304 


THI-:  i  AL  BISHOP. 


ishecl,  he  gave  a  look  which  those  about  could 
interpret.  Olive  burst  into  tears.  The  Bishop, 
with  a  single  fierce  effort,  took  her  hand  in 
and  pressed  it  gratefully.  His  lips  moved  again. 
No  sound  escaped  them;  but  the  words  he  framed 
were  "  Thank  God,"  and  Evelyn  instantly  read 
them. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  away  through  that 
fatal  Sunday.  By  seven  at  night,  the  Bishop  ral- 
lied a  little  in  a  dying  flicker.  He  held  up  one 
hand  as  if  he  wished  to  speak.  Evelyn,  who  was 
nearest  at  the  moment,  bent  over  him. 

The  Bishop  whispered  in  her  ear.  His  voice, 
though  thick.  W;IN  distinctly  audible.  "The 
Lord  has  been  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "  He  has 
spared  me  that  last  humiliation,  and  your  mother 
that  sorrow.  I-ct  him  punish  me  now  as  he  will! 
I  shall  never  speak  again.  I  am  coming  into 
port.  Good  b\  and  ki>s  i 

She  kissed  him  passionately.  So  did  Olive. 
Then  he  fell  back  and  said  no  more.  Five  min- 

9  later,  the  heavy  breaching  ceased.  Olive 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  K\  elyn  stooped  again 
and  kissed  the  lips  of  a  man  who,  whatever  his 
sin.  had  died  heroically. 

Sir  Nathaniel  drew  Yate-Westbury  aside  into 
the  passage.  "Under  these  circumstances,"  he 
said,  "  it  is  unnecessary  for  anybody  to  inquire 


THE   BISHOP   DECIDES.  305 

whether  the  story  which  you  and  I  alone  know, 
and  that  very  partially,  was  true  or  a  de- 
lusion." 

44  Oh,  certainly,"  Yate-Westbury  answered. 
"  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Glisson  and  her  daughter  that 
he  died  from  nervous  strain,  resulting  in  paraly- 
sis; and  that  the  strain  was  due  to  his  excessive 
anxiety  about  the  affairs  of  his  diocese." 

Evelyn  came  out  to  them,  in  tears.  "  Mother 
need  never  know,"  she  said,  "  what  troubled  him 
in  his  last  few  days." 

"Nobody  will  ever  know,"  Yate-Westbury  an- 
swered, lying  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian. 
"  There  was  nothing  in  it.  I  am  convinced  it 
was  all  premonition  of  this  paralysis,  acting  upon 
an  abnormally  excited  brain.  He  had  been  wor- 
rying over  this  question  of  the  pretended  orders; 
and  it  killed  a  frame  already  weary  with  much 
toil  for  others.  Your  father  was  a  good  man. 
We  could  more  easily  have  spared  half  a  dozen 
stock  bishops." 

"Then  you  don''  believe  it  was  true?"  Eve- 
lyn cried,  herself  half  doubting. 

The  specialist  perjured  himself  like  a  man. 
"  Not  one  word  of  it!  "  he  answered. 

Evelyn  broke  down  utterly.  "  Oh  thank 
you,"  she  cried.  "Thank  you!  I  am  so  glad 
for  Mother.  Though  myself,  I  should  have  loved 


3o6 


'in;  .lOP. 


him  just  the  same,  no  matter  what  he  had  done. 
He  was  my  father,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  the  best 
and  sweetest  father  any  girl  ever  had.  I  should 
have  believed  in  him  if  he  had  committed  a  dozen 
murders.  I  should  have  known  they  were  right 
— because  he  did  th- 


END. 


LIBRARY    OF 


kAJ  (VJ 


F   THE    UNIVERSITY   'JF    CALIFORNIA 


i      Hm    a  " 


TY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY    OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA 


TV   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


